f" 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 

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LIBRARY 


THE  WILMER  COLLECTION 

OF  CIVIL  WAR  NOVELS 

PRESENTED  BY 

RICHARD  H.  WILMER,  JR. 


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A  SON  OF  OLD  HARRY. 


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^  \  .1  j'S:^\:...jm 


A  SON  OF  OLD  HARRY 


2,  l^aml 


BY 


ALBION    W.    TOURGEE, 


Author  of  ^'  A  FooVs  Errand,''''  etc. 


WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS   BY    WABREN   B.    DAVIS. 


NEW  YOKK: 

ROBERT     BONNER'S     SONS, 

i8qi. 


COPTHIGHT,  1891, 
BY  ROEEKT  BONNER'S  SONS. 


(All  rights  reserved.) 


l^on  of  OJ^Hc 


ioh  IP.  C(o  O^c'e . , 


PROLOGUE. 

IT  did  not  need  the  verdict  of  Science 
to  assure  me  that  I  am  doomed.  Yet,  I 
have  just  heard  it  announced.  Calmly,  qui- 
etly, without  a  quaver  in  his  voice,  one  of  the 
most  eminent  of  his  profession,  has  declared  : 
"  There  is  little,  I  may  say  no  hope  of  recov- 
ery, nor  any  immediate  prospect  of  death. 
You  may  live  weeks,  perhaps  months,  possi- 
bly years  ;  but  you  will  never  be — other  than  what  you 
are." 

Other  than  what  I  am  !  I  expected  this  decision — 
knew  in  reason  it  must  be  so — yet  the  words  fell  upon 
my  consciousness  with  a  strange,  numbing-  sense  of 
horror. 

"  Other  than  what  you  are  !"  I  repeated  to  myself,  as 
I  heard  the  firm,  elastic  steps  echoing  along  the  corridor 
of  the  great  hotel  outside  my  room  when  the  physician 
went  away.  What  am  I .?  It  did  not  need  knowledge 
such  as  his  to  determine.  Half  dead  and  half 
alive ! 


603283 


A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 


This  body  which  has  served  me  so  well  at  need,  and 
which,  whatever  else  I  may  have  done,  I  have  never 
abused,  has  been  cut  in  twain.  One-half  has  already 
passed  beyond  the  realm  of  consciousness.  The  inert 
limbs  chain  me  to  the  couch.  The  nerves  which  traverse 
the  yet  unshrunken  tissues,  bring-  only  dim,  vague  mes- 
sages of  need — dull,  prickling  appeals  for  aid.  I  live, 
but  it  is  only  a  half-life.  The  brain  is  alert  ;  the  soul 
alive  ;  the  body  slipping  helplessly  and  hopelessly  into 
the  tomb. 

It  is  a  strange  ending  of  a  strange  life — a  life  strange 
enough  without  such  tragedy— a  life  already  curiously 
dismembered  by  Fate.  Has  it  been  one  life — or  two — 
or  three  ?  Am  I  the  lad  who  set  out  on  life's  journey 
half  a  century  ago  unmindful  of  the  destiny  that  awaited 
him  ?  Did  I  grow  to  be  what  I  was,  or  did  some  strange 
alembic  transform  my  nature  ?  It  is  hard  to  tell.  Per- 
haps in  the  earlier  life  was  hid  the  fruitage  of  the  later 
years — and  the  one  was  but  an  evolution  from  the 
others. 

What  shall  I  do  with  this  interval  between  life  and 
death  ?  Review  the  past  ?  I  cannot  change  it.  Nay,  I 
would  not  if  I  could.  Not  that  I  have  always  done  the 
best  or  chosen  always  the  wisest  course.  Perhaps  I 
sometimes  did  the  very  worst.  But  the  one  act  which 
colored  all  my  after  life,  I  committed  purposely,  with 
full  knowledge  of  its  import,  and  I  have  no  desire  to 
repent  or  to  be  forgiven.  Whether  it  was  right  or 
wrong,  I  do  not  know  ;  worse  yet,  I  hardly  care.  Nay, 
Iftoking  backward  at  it  from  this  vantage-ground  of 
truth,  my  dying  bed,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  I  am 
glad  I  did  the  thing  which  made  my  name  a  syno- 
nym of  shame,  so  bitter  that  Cain  himself,  even  with 
the  ineffaceable  mark  upon  his  brow,  might  well  pity 
the  man  condemned  to  wear  it. 


Prologtie.  g 

It  cut  my  life  in  twain  even  as  my  body  is  now  cleft. 
What  I  had  been,  I  was  never  to  be  again.  The  child 
my  mother  bore  has  already  been  dead  more  years  than 
he  lived.  I  have  had  two  lives — two  lives  with  a  black, 
bottomless  gulf  between  them.  Yet  the  past  has  no 
terrors  for  me.  As  to  the  future,  I  do  not  know  what  it 
may  have  in  store.  If  I  am  to  live  hereafter,  and  I  hope 
I  may,  I  trust  my  destiny  with  Him  who  shaped  the 
past  which  He  will  judge.  I  do  not  fear  His  judgment. 
I  have  no  need  to  prepare  for  death.  I  am  ready  for  it 
— at  least  as  ready  as  I  ever  shall  be — as  ready  as  I 
ever  can  be. 

No  living  mortal  save  myself  knows  who  I  really 
am,  or  even  guesses  what  I  was.  Why  should  he  ?  I 
died  a  score  of  years  ago — died  and  was  inumed  in 
infamy.  A  continent  thrilled  with  horror  at  the  obloquy 
of  my  act.  My  name  is  remembered  only  to  be  detested. 
Even  I  can  hardly  realize  that  it  was  once  mine.  My 
life  seems  bounded  by  the  red  horizon  of  my  shame. 
He  who  lived  beyond  it,  and  bore  that  other  name,  was 
not  I,  but  another.  I  never  think  of  him  but  in  the 
third  person.  Men  blotted  this  name  off  the  tablets  of 
friendship ;  women  denied  with  angry  vehemence  all 
knowledge  of  him  who  bore  it.  It  was  erased  from  the 
roll  of  honor  on  which  I  had  written  it  with  the  sword — 
from  the  records  of  the  church  ;  from  the  scroll  of  fame 
— for  1  had  made  it  famous  in  a  way,  by  honorable 
endeavor.  Even  the  brethren  of  the  "  Mystic  Tie  "  dis- 
owned me.  In  all  the  world  there  was  not  one  to  offer 
me  the  hand  of  sympathy  or  speak  my  name  with 
pity. 

Why  should  I  not  write  the  story  of  this  strangely  dis- 
jointed life.  The  future  is  denied  me — why  should  I 
not  recall  the  past  ?  I  do  not  know  that  any  one  will 
care  to  read  the  tale.     Indeed,  I  do  not  think  I  desire  so 


lo  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

much  that  it  should  be  read  as  that  it  should  be  fairly- 
stated.  I  wish  to  tell  the  truth,  and  am  not  sure  I  would 
always  do  so,  if  I  thought  what  I  write  would  be  read  by 
many. 

I  have  often  wondered  that  men  should  care  to 
write  about  themselves,  or  that  others  should  care  to 
read  what  people  think,  or,  rather,  desire  others  to 
believe  they  think  about  themselves — their  dreams,  acts 
purposes  and  achievements.  A  man's  testimony  for  or 
against  himself  is  not  apt  to  be  reliable.  I  have 
always  thought  there  was  no  greater  liar  that  St.  Augus- 
tine in  his  "Confessions."  I  read  them  when  I  was 
young.  If  I  had  believed  them,  they  would  have 
done  me  harm.  In  his  desire  to  glorify  his  Redeemer, 
I  think  he  slandered  his  Creator.  His  idea  of  evil  was 
delusive,  too.  The  sinful  thought  is  not  the  full  equiv- 
alent of  wrongful  purpose  ripening  into  harmful 
act. 

Yet  St.  Augustine  was  probably  as  nearly  truthful  as 
any  one  can  be  who  writes  of  himself  in  order  that  the 
world  may  read. 

I  have  read  many  so-called  "  Lives "  of  men  who 
desired  to  extol  their  own  purity,  demonstrate  or  defend 
or  explain  the  acts  they  feared  the  future  might  not  esti- 
mate as  they  desired.  I  have  no  such  motive.  What  I  did 
cannot  be  extenuated.  Why  I  did  it  is  a  matter  of  no 
consequence,  I  expect  nothing  of  to-morrow  and  have  no 
defence  to  make  of  yesterday.  I  could  at  the  best  only 
admit  that  of  which  I  am  accused,  and  affirm  the  very 
motive  which  was  assigned.  I  do  not  regret  it,  and  can 
derive  no  benefit  from  its  confession.  The  world  would 
demand  either  a  show  of  repentance  or  a  display  of 
boastful  depravity.  I  can  offer  neither.  I  would  be  glad 
if  one  who  knew  her  might  read  the  plain,  unvarnished 
tale  of  my  life  that  she  might  be  judged  aright.     That  is 


Prologue. 


II 


all  I  desire.  So  far  as  /  am  concerned,  it  is  a  matter  of 
no  moment.  There  is  but  one  whose  good  opinion  I 
would  greatly  care  to  retain  ;  and  hers,  of  all  persons  in 
the  world,  I  think  would  be  least  likely  to  survive  a 
knowledge  of  the  truth.  It  is  strange  that  I  should 
care  for  the  judgment  of  one  who  wears  a  nurse's  cap 
and  apron,  more  than  for  all  the  world  beside  ;  but  it  is 
true.  So  I  will  write  and  she  shall  read  ;  and  whether 
she  excuse  or  condemn,  it  shall  be  of  none  the  less 
advantage  to  her. 


PART   FIRST— JACK. 
CHAPTER  I. 

A    TIMELY     PHENOMENON. 


'•    \ 


It  was  forty  years  ago.  A  man  of  middle  age,  whose 
frame  was  wasted  by  disease,  lay  upon  a  bed  opposite  a 
bright  wood-fire,  by  which  sat  a  woman  weeping  bit- 
terly and  wiping  away  her  tears  with  the  blue-checked 
cambric  apron  which  she  wore.  A  sturdy  boy  of  twelve 
years  stood  near  the  foot  of  the  bed,  digging  his  chubby 
fists  into  his  eyes  and  sobbing  dolorously.  A  man 
younger  than  the  invalid,  but  so  closely  resembling  him 
as  to  leave  no  doubt  that  he  was  a  brother,  stood  with 
flushed  face  at  the  head  of  the  bed  and  looked  angrily 
down  at  the  offending  youngster.  The  countenance  of 
the  sick  man  evinced  great  anxiety.  The  stubby  beard 
gave  his  emaciated  face  a  somber  look.  Jet  black  hair 
hung  in  a  dark,  almost  forbidding  mass  across  his  sal- 
low forehead.  Blue  eyes  shone  with  a  tremulous,  humid 
glow  beneath  the  knotted,  beetling  brows.  A  full 
under-lip  showed  through  the  dark  beard  moving  ner- 
vously. A  red  flannel  shirt  was  visible  beneath  the 
coarse  white  cotton  one  with  its  unlaundried  bosom. 

The  hand  that  rested  on  the  coverlet,  though  pale  and 
shrunken,  still  bore  the  tan  of  accustomed  toil,  and  the 
great  joints  and  broad,  stiff  nails  told  that  the  sick  man 


14  A   Son  of  Old  Harry. 

had  been  of  powerful  physique.  Tufts  of  black  hair 
showed  upon  the  shrunken  phalanges,  revealing  a 
ghastly  story  of  the  ravages  of  disease.  His  face  was 
kindly  but  severe,  and  his  voice  trembled  more  from 
excitement  than  feebleness,  as  he  said,  sternly  : 

"  What  is  this  I  hear,  my  son  ?" 

Seth  Goodwin  was  a  very  sick  man.  His  friends, 
relatives,  and  even  the  attending  physician,  said  that  he 
had  not  long  to  live.  They  told  him  so,  too,  with  that 
reckless  disregard  for  consequences  which  characterized 
a  life  in  which  preparation  to  die  was  considered  a 
much  more  important  fact  than  death  itself.  Lest  he 
should  perchance  forget  the  fate  impending  over  him,  a 
preternatural  gloom  pervaded  the  room  in  which  he 
lay,  which  was  kept  at  a  stifling  temperature,  with  every 
breath  of  air  excluded,  lest  Nature  should  refuse  to  sub- 
mit to  the  general  verdict.  Apprehension  was  written 
on  the  countenance  of  every  one  who  approached  the 
bedside.  Many  asked,  in  solemn  tones,  after  his  spir- 
itual welfare.  Several  insisted  upon  praying  with  him. 
The  wife  wept  and  tried  to  hide  her  tears.  The 
brother,  recently  arrived,  had  put  a  stop  to  some  of 
these  things.  He  had  insisted  on  cheerful  faces,  few 
callers  and  no  prayers.  The  wife  thought  him  cruel ; 
the  neighbors  called  him  wicked  ;  the  doctor  said  he  was 
sensible.  He  himself  said  that  Seth  had  made  his  will, 
was  ready  to  die,  and  probably  would  die  ;  but  he 
shouldn't  be  worried  to  death  nor  lose  any  chance  of 
life  through  fretting  over  what  couldn't  be  helped. 

The  sick  man  was  only  a  common  farmer,  one  of 
those  sturdy  men  who,  when  the  middle  West  was  but 
half  subdued,  undertook  to  win  competence  by  complet- 
ing the  conquest  the  pioneers  had  begun.  It  was  before 
the  days  of  railroads  and  telegraphs.  The  highways  of 
traffic  lay  along  the  great  lakes,  a  himdred  miles  to  the 


A    Timely  Phenomenon.  15 

northward,  or  up  and  down  the  great  river,  a  hundred 
miles  to  the  southward.  "Wagons  and  boats  were  the 
sole  means  of  transport.  The  stage-coach  was  the  only 
carrier-pigeon.  Roads  had  been  hewn  through  the 
forest  on  the  lines  blazed  by  the  government  surveyors, 
until  every  State  west  of  the  Alleghanies  must  have 
looked  to  an  aerial  beholder  like  a  great  checker-board 
cut  in  the  arboreal  verdure.  Here  and  there  the  dull- 
yellow  roadways  were  flanked  by  green  meadows  and 
thrifty  homesteads.  Villages  and  towns,  the  ganglia  of 
traffic  and  precursors  of  a  new  civilization,  were  clus- 
tered here  and  there.  The  forest,  which  represented  the 
stored-up  wealth  of  unnumbered  centuries,  was  still 
accounted  the  enemy  of  the  thrifty  settler,  who  warred 
against  it  with  fire  and  steel.  The  mighty  walnuts, 
whitewoods,  maples,  beeches,  oaks  and  elms  which 
hedged  in  the  clearings  with  a  continuous  living  wall 
a  hundred  feet  in  height,  even  though  of  the  finest 
grain  and  clearest  fiber,  were  counted  worthless  to  the 
owner.  Men  were  still  hired  to  destroy  these  monarchs 
of  the  forest.  Only  from  their  ashes,  leached  and  boiled 
into  crude  forms  of  caustic  soda — "potash,"  it  was 
called — could  a  merchantable  product  be  obtained  by 
which  the  owner  might  get  pay  for  the  labor  of  "  clear- 
ing." The  value  of  the  land  depended  upon  the  cost 
of  cutting  away  the  forest.  The  denser  the  growth  and 
the  richer  the  wood,  the  heavier  the  cost  of  removal. 

The  land  teemed  with  the  promise  of  unexampled 
productiveness.  Horses  and  cattle,  sheep  and  swine 
were  abundant  ;  but  only  the  first  were  highly  prized^ 
according  to  more  recent  standards  of  comparison.  It 
was  a  tedious  and  costly  matter  to  drive  the  cattle  and 
swine  a  thousand  miles  to  market.  The  fleece  was 
more  easily  transported,  and  despite  the  disadvantages 
of  production,  wool  became  one  of  the  first  articles  of 


1 6  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

commerce  of  this  region.  Grain  and  cheese  were 
exported  also,  but  the  cost  of  carriage  made  the  prices 
very  low. 

With  the  irrepressible  energy  which  marked  the  epoch 
in  which  he  lived,  Seth  Goodwin  and  his  young  wife  had 
set  out  a  dozen  years  before  to  overcome  these  obstacles 
— to  build  a  home  and  acquire  a  competence.  They 
had  succeeded  well  ;  but  before  their  plans  had  reached 
entire  fruition,  one  of  those  great  financial  revulsions 
that  sweep  over  the  world  had  touched  the  products  of 
toil  and  they  had  shrunk  almost  to  nothing.  His  desire 
to  increase  his  possessions  had  induced  him  to  mortgage 
what  he  had  already  acquired  to  secure  money  to  buy 
more.  When  the  shrinkage  in  values  came,  he  fought 
bravely,  working  with  redoubled  energy  ;  and  for  a  time 
his  hope  for  ultimate  success .  was  not  without  reason- 
able basis.  Whatever  courage,  integrity  and  good 
credit  could  do  to  avert  disaster,  that  Seth  Goodwin 
could  be  relied  upon  to  accomplish  ;  but  after  a  time 
disease  came,  and  with  it,  very  soon,  despair.  The  sick 
man  faced  his  doom  with  composure,  but  the  thought 
that  he  would  leave  his  wife  and  child  unprovided  for, 
filled  both  his  waking  moments  and  his  dreams  with 
agony. 

The  boy  had  been  a  source  of  constant  anxiety,  espe- 
cially to  his  mother,  ever  since  he  had  been  able  to  find 
his  way  into  danger.  He  had  now  been  summoned  to 
his  father's  bedside  to  be  reproved  for  an  offence  which 
derived  the  greater  part  of  its  enormity  from  the  condi- 
tion of  his  parent's  health.  Among  the  duties  which 
this  illness  had  imposed  upon  the  lad  was  the  care  of  a 
colt  which  from  a  suckling  had  been  the  pride  of  the 
boy's  heart.  It  had  been  "  broken,"  as  the  process  of 
training  the  horse  to  work  is  barbarously  called,  the 
summer  before.     The  boy  had  ridden  him  to  plow  corn. 


\  A    Timely  Phenomenon.  i  j 

and  to  and  from  the  field,  and  since  he  had  had  him  in 
his  care,  had  ridden  him,  perhaps,  oftener  than  was  nec- 
essary, to  the  brook,  which  babbled  along  under  the 
hill-side  half  a  furlong  from  the  barn,  for  water.  This 
fact,  not  having  come  to  the  parents'  knowledge,  had 
never  been  forbdiden.  He  was  a  resolute  lad  and  had 
shown  a  capacity  to  "  look  after  things,"  as  the  mother 
had  expressed  it,  which  was  a  great  comfort  to  the 
afflicted  woman,  and  being  reported  to  the  father  had 
won  his  warm  approval. 

A  fortnight  before,  the  brother  of  the  sick  man  had 
come  to  assist  the  wife  in  taking  care  of  him.  He  was  a 
somewhat  gay  young  fellow  whose  pride  centered  in  a 
mare  noted  throughout  all  the  region  as  a  "  quarter- 
horse,"  of  great  speed.  Since  he  had  owned  her  she 
had  done  some  notable  work,  but  was  not  regarded  as 
quite  strong  enough  for  the  long  distance  races  then  in 
vogue.  This  mare  the  uncle  had  brought  with  him  and 
she  had  occupied  a  stall  next  to  the  boy's  colt,  Pompey. 

Racing  was  at  that  time  a  popular  amusement  in  that 
region.  The  tracks  were  often  "  straightaway,"  and  the 
equipments  of  the  sport  very  crude,  but  good  time  was 
often  made,  and  the  associations  of  the  turf  were  far 
more  reputable  than  they  are  to-day.  Almost  in  front 
of  Seth  Goodwin's  house  stood  a  beech-tree,  which  was 
the  beginning  of  what  was  known  through  all  that 
region  as  "  the  measured  mile,"  a  level  stretch  along  the 
State  Road,  which  was  a  favorite  place  for  trials  of 
speed  between  the  fancy  nags  of  the  neighborhood.  In 
these  trials,  the  boy  had  always  manifested  a  lively 
interest,  and  was  well  aware  of  the  reputation  the  brown 
mare  belonging  to  his  uncle  Horace  had  earned  in  many 
a  hard- won  race  as  the  "  Queen  "  of  that  particular  bit 
of  turf.  Her  fame  did  not,  however,  in  the  least  eclipse, 
in  his  opinion,  the  glory  of  his  own  pretty  bay,  in  whose 


1 8  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

capacity  to  distance  the  "  Queen  "  herself,  the  boy  was 
a  firm  believer.  This  belief  he  did  not  hesitate  to  avow, 
and  when  some  of  his  playmates  made  light  of  this 
theory,  he  promptly  offered  to  put  it  to  the  test  by  a 
race  between  them  along  the  accustomed  track. 

It  was  not  the  season  of  races.  A  heavy  snow  had 
fallen,  but  the  weather  was  mild,  and  it  had  been  beaten 
down  into  two  smooth  parallel  tracks,  bordered  on  either 
side  by  a  white  flocculent  cushion.  There  happened  to 
be  among  the  boys  one  who  boasted  of  some  experience 
as  a  jockey,  who  volunteered  to  ride  the  Queen,  and 
young  Goodwin  declared  his  readiness  to  back  his  own 
favorite  in  a  literal  sense.  It  is  not  in  boy  nature  to 
"  take  a  dare,"  and  words  quickly  grew  into  deeds.  The 
horses  were  bridled.  Cooper,  the  challenger,  who  was 
some  years  older  than  the  colt's  champion,  insisted  on 
having  the  only  saddle  in  the  bam.  The  boy  made  no 
objection.  He  had  rarely  ridden  with  a  saddle.  He 
merely  strapped  a  sheep-skin  on  the  back  of  the  low, 
rangy  bay  colt,  which  stood  beside  the  bony,  flat-limbed 
mare  on  the  great  bam- floor  during  the  controversy, 
and  declared  himself  ready  for  the  trial. 

The  jockeys  mounted  and  rode  out,  the  colt  leading 
the  way.  The  other  bo5's  followed  on  foot.  They  went 
down  the  lane  toward  the  brook,  and  took  the  cart-track 
up  the  hollow  out  of  sight  of  the  house,  to  the  road, 
instead  of  going  through  the  yard.  Nobody  gave  any 
specific  reason  for  taking  this  course,  but  the  boys  all 
knew  it  was  to  prevent  their  being  interrupted  and  the 
race  spoiled  by  any  interference  of  the  elders.  The 
house  was  quite  a  distance  from  the  road,  and  they 
trusted  on  escaping  observation  until  too  late  to  put  an 
end  to  their  sport.  When  they  reached  the  road,  they 
trotted  up  to  the  big  beech ;  a  mark  was  made  in  the 
snow  on  each  side  of  the  track  ;    one  of  the  boys  was 


A    Timely  Phenomeno7i.  19 

named  as  starter  ;  the  horses  were  turned  back  and 
brought  carefully  up,  neck  and  neck,  to  the  starting- 
place. 

"  Go  !"  shouted  Billy  Wayland,  the  starter,  throwing 
his  cap  in  the  air. 

"  Go  !"  shouted  the  other  boys  at  the  top  of  their 
voices. 

Mrs,  Seth  Goodwin  looked  out  of  the  kitchen  window 
just  in  time  to  see  two  horses,  with  boyish  figures  on 
their  backs,  flash  across  her  field  of  vision.  A  swift 
intuition  told  her  who  they  were,  and  she  sank  into  a 
chair  with  a  low,  shuddering  moan.  She  was  a  weak, 
nervous  woman,  whose  reliance  had  been  in  her  hus- 
band's magnificent  strength.  Now  that  this  support 
was  likely  to  be  removed,  she  was  already  looking  for- 
ward to  a  widowhood  in  which  the  son,  so  wonderfully 
like  his  father  in  self-reliance,  should  be  her  chief 
dependence.  If  there  was  one  thing  that  she  feared 
more  than  another,  it  was  a  horse.  From  the  first,  the 
boy's  fondness  for  the  colt  had  filled  her  with  apprehen- 
sion. A  thousand  times  she  had  in  fancy  seen  him 
bitten,  kicked,  torn,  mangled  by  the  spirited  beast  he 
would  persist  in  fondling.  Now  she  beheld  him  borne 
headlong  to  his  doom  on  the  back  of  this  same  winged 
terror. 

There  was  a  shriek  from  the  group  of  boys  by  the 
roadside — an  unmistakable  cry  of  alarm.  She  saw  them 
gazing  in  terror  along  the  level  vista  of  the  "measured 
mile."  There  were  more  shouts.  Some  ran  in  one 
direction  and  some  in  another.  She  heard  louder,  more 
terrified  cries.  She  was  sure  one  voice  said  :  "  He's 
down  !  He's  killed  !"  She  did  not  stop  to  ask  who  was 
slain.  Her  heart  told  her.  She  was  not  only  to  be  a 
widow  but  childless  !  The  snow  grew  red — bloody  red 
— then  yellow  and  green  to  her  dazed  vision.     The  room 


20  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

whirled  round  and  round  as  she  sank  to  the  floor  in  a 
dead  faint.  Here  her  brother-in-law  found  her  when^ 
startled  by  the  noise  of  her  fall,  he  came  from  the  sick- 
room to  inquire  its  cause.  Taking  her  in  his  arms,  he 
laid  her  on  the  bed  in  an  adjoining  room.  By  that  time 
more  than  one  of  the  frightened  boys  were  clamoring  at 
the  door. 

It  did  not  take  many  inquiries  to  learn  the  facts. 
Even  his  heart  stood  still  with  fear  at  the  thought  of 
two  unpracticed  boys  starting  out  to  ride  a  race  with  a 
a  hard-bitted  flyer  and  a  half-broken  colt.  He  was  in 
the  road  in  an  instant,  snatching  off  his  coat  as  he  went, 
clenching  his  hands,  throwing  out  his  chest  and  shutting 
his  lips  close  as  a  man  must  who  is  going  to  take  a  long 
run.  Away  up  the  road  he  could  see  two  moving  spots 
— or  was  there  only  one  ?  He  did  not  stop  to  question. 
A  quarter  of  a  mile  away  there  was  a  black  heap  by  the 
roadside.  It  was  alive  and  audible  ;  there  was  no  doubt 
about  that.  Two  of  the  boys  reached  it  about  the  time 
he  struck  the  roadway.  They  raised  it  into  a  sitting 
posture.     The  clamor  grew  louder. 

"  I  never  thought  the  whelp  would  make  such  a  fuss 
as  that,"  said  the  runner  to  himself,  disgustedly,  as  he 
drew  near.  "  Ah,  it's  not  Jack  !  What's  the  matter  ?" 
he  asked,  pausing  and  shaking  the  boy  by  the  collar  as 
he  spoke.  "  Stop  your  yelling,  Sam  Cooper,  and  tell  me 
what's  the  matter !" 

"  Oh,  I'm  killed  !  I  shall  die  !  I  know  I  shall  !" 
howled  the  frightened  boy. 

The  questioner  soon  found  that  however  frightened 
the  lad  might  be,  the  deep  snow  had  saved  him  from 
serious  injury.  All  he  could  learn  about  his  nephew 
was  that  he  was  "  sure  to  be  killed  ;"  a  result  he  thought 
not  unlikely,  but  man-like  consoled  himself  with  the 
contemptuous  remark  : 


A    Timely  Phenomenon.  ii 

"  If  he  is  he  won't  make  such  an  infernal  fuss  about 
it." 

Having  thus  expressed  himself,  Uncle  Horace  resumed, 
with  the  pertinacity  peculiar  to  the  Goodwins,  the 
apparently  hopeless  pursuit  of  the  runaway. 

It  was  an  hour  later  when  he  returned.  He  was  rid- 
ing the  Queen,  whose  head  drooped  down  as  she  swung 
it  back  and  forth  in  a  long  fox-walk,  while  the  steam 
rose  from  her  heaving  flanks,  and  clouds  of  vapor  poured 
from  her  distended  nostrils.  He  held  the  colt's  rein, 
while  a  worn  switch,  which  he  carried  in  his  right  hand, 
seemed  a  sufficient  explanation  of  the  lachrymose  con- 
dition of  the  lad  on  the  colt's  back.  Both  horses  were 
evidently  tired,  as  was  natural  after  a  two-mile  heat  in 
the  snow,  for  they  had  passed  the  limit  and  only  been 
stopped  when  nearly  a  mile  beyond. 

The  colt's  condition  did  not  escape  the  horseman's 
eye  as  he  put  the  animals  in  the  stable  and  blanketed 
them  carefully  lest  they  should  take  cold.  He  was 
drenched  with  sweat  by  his  unaccustomed  effort,  but  not 
in  the  least  blown,  and  his  steaming  flanks  throbbed 
evenly  and  steadily,  as  if  he  had  merely  had  a  fling  in 
the  pasture,  instead  of  trying  conclusions  with  the  best 
horse  in  that  region.  When  the  uncle  had  attended  to 
the  horses  he  hooked  his  fingers  in  the  boy's  collar  and 
led  him  to  the  house.  Seeing  her  child  safe,  the  mother 
had  already  informed  the  father  of  the  main  facts  in  the 
case.  After  a  short  consultation  with  his  brother,  the 
lad  was  called  in.  His  mother  followed,  taking  her 
station  on  the  hearth  and  weeping  as  if  her  heart  would 
break — whether  from  joy  or  sorrow,  it  would  be  hard  to 
tell. 

"  What  is  this  you  have  been  doing,  Hubert  ?"  repeated 
-the  invalid,  tremulously. 

The  boy's  name  was  John  Hubert.     His  mother  gen- 


2  2  A  Son  of  Old  Harjy. 

erally  spoke  of  him  as  John  ;  his  father  always  addressed 
him  as  Hubert  ;  his  uncle  and  playmates  called  him 
Jack, 

"  I  didn't — mean — no  harm,"  sobbed  the  boy  as  he 
industriously  rolled  his  fists  in  and  out  against  his  eyes, 
as  if  seriously  contemplating  the  removal  of  the  offend- 
ing members. 

"  You  knew  it  was  wrong  ?" 

"  I — I — s'pose  so." 

"  Then,  why  did  you  do  it  ?" 

"  Well,  you  see,  sir — Sam  Cooper — he — he — we  was 
all  in  the  bam  and  talking  about — about  Pomp  and — 
and  the  Queen,  sir — that  is,  the  boys  was  talking  about 
old  Queen,  and — and  I  told  'em  Pomp  was  a  better 
horse'n  she'd  ever  been  ;  and  he  is,  too." 

"  Pompey  is  a  good  colt,  but  he  has  never  run  a  race  ; 
so  you  should  not  have  said  that.  It  is  not  nice  to 
brag." 

"  It  wasn't  any  bragging,  father ;  I  was  sure  of  it," 
said  the  lad,  stoutly. 

"  But  you  had  never  seen  him  run." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  had,"  answered  the  boy,  quite  cheerfully  ; 
"  and  rode  him,  too." 

"  When  and  where  ?"  demanded  the  father,  sternly. 

"  Oh,  lots  of  times  ;  last  fall,  after  the  races."  ' 

"  My  son,  answer  me  :  Have  you  ever  ridden  him  on 
the  measured  mile  before  .?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  lad,  bowing  his  head  and 
beginning  to  sob  again. 

"  How  was  it  that  you  were  never  seen  before  ?" 

"  It — it  was  at  night." 

"  At  night !  Didn't  you  know  you  were  not  old 
enough  to  do  such  things.?". 

"  But  I  went  after  the  doctor  at  night  when  you  were 
first  taken  sick,"  sobbed  the  boy. 


A  .Timely  Phenomenon.  23 

"So  you  did,"  said  the  father,  softening-. 

"  And  you  said  that  was  right,  though  I  didn't  let  you 
know  about  it." 

"  That's  a  fact,  my  son — " 

*'  And  Doctor  Kelsey  said  if  he  had  waited  to  walk,  it 
would  have  been  too  late,"  interrupted  the  mother, 
who  could  not  help  interceding  for  the  child. 

"  But  you  know  I  do  not  approve  of  horse-racing," 
continued  the  father,  changing  his  ground.  "  It  is  not 
a  creditable  business  for  any  one  to  engage  in." 

"  Uncle  Horace  races,"  protested  the  boy. 

"You  see,  now,"  said  the  sick  man,  reproachfully, 
turning  to  his  brother,  "  what  your  example  is  doing. 
The  boy  might  have  been  killed." 

"  Well,  he  wasn't  ;  and  I  don't  think  he's  likely  to  be, 
judging  from  what  I  saw  of  his  riding." 

"  Oh,  it's  no  trouble  to  ride  Pomp,"  exclaimed  the  boy, 
eagerly. 

"  But  Sam  Cooper  was  badly  hurt,  I  hear,  and  he  is 
considerably  older  than  you,  Hubert." 

"He  would  have  been  all  right,  too,  if  he  had  just 
stuck  on — but  he  got  scared — that's  what  was  the  mat- 
ter with  him.  You  see,  the  old  mare  had  the  best  of  the 
send-ofE — 'cause  she  was  used  to  it,  I  guess.  But  when 
Pomp  see  she  was  trying  to  get  away  from  him,  he  laid 
down  to  it  and  shut  the  light  out  between  'em  almost 
as  if  she  was  standing  still.  Of  course,  she  didn't  like 
that,  and  just  let  out  the  best  she  had.  She  went  so 
fast,  I  guess  it  scared  Sam,  for  he  kind  of  slid  off  into 
the  snow,  and  began  to  holler  ;  but  the  old  mare  kept 
right  on.  'Twasn't  any  use,  though,"  continued  the 
excited  lad  ;  "  Pomp  was  on  her  quarter  when  we  got 
to  the  bars  of  No.  7,  and  'fore  we'd  got  to  the  three-quar- 
ter maple,  he  was  a  neck  ahead.  Queen  was  a-doin'  her 
best,  too,  and  I  didn't  touch  the  switch  to  Pompey,  but 


24  A   Son  of  Old  Harry. 

by  the  time  we  got  to  the  mile  post,  he  was — well — quite 
a  few  lengths  ahead — three  or  four — anyhow,"  said  the 
boy,  doggedly,  looking  up  at  his  uncle. 

"  My  son  !"  said  the  father  sternly. 

"  It's  so,  father.  Do  you  think  I'd  tell  a  lie  ?"  asked 
the  boy,  choking  back  the  tears. 

"  Why  didn't  you  stop  there  ?"  asked  the  uncle, 

"  I  did  try  to,  and  I  could  have  stopped  Pomp  easy 
enough,  but  every  time  I'd  pull  him  up,  old  Queen 
would  try  to  rush  by." 

"  Just  like  her,"  muttered  Horace  to  himself,  appre- 
ciatively. "  I'd  risk  the  old  girl  to  run  a  race  all  by 
herself,  and  win  it,  too,  if  it  was  in  the  cards  for  her  to 
do  so." 

**  My  son,  you  cannot  expect  any  one  to  believe  you 
when  you  claim  to  have  outrun  the  swiftest  horse  in  the 
country  with  a  snip  of  a  colt." 

*'  There's  a  good  bit  of  a  horse  in  that  colt's  hide, 
Seth,"  interposed  the  uncle. 

"I  did,  father  ;  1  did,  truly  I"  exclaimed  the  boy,  with, 
passionate  intensity.  "  And  he  can  do  it  again  any  day 
— the  best  she  ever  see.  I  tell  you,  father,  you  don't 
know  what  a  colt  he  is.  Just  let  me  try  it.  Uncle 
Horace  may  ride  Queen,  too,  and  if  Pomp  don  t  beat  her, 
he  can  whip  me  all  the  way  back  just  as  he  did  to-day," 
said  the  boy,  resentfully. 

"  Your  uncle  did  exactly  right.'' 

"  I  wasn't  to  blame  for  the  colt  being  smarter  than  his 
old  mare,"  protested  the  boy,  sullenly. 

This  was  too  much.  The  uncle  laughed  outright ; 
the  mother  chuckled  under  the  apron  she  still  held  to 
her  eyes,  and  even  the  father  smiled. 

"Hubert,"  said  the  latter,  after  a  moment.  "Can  you 
think  of  nothing  but  horses  ?" 

"  I — I  don't  know,"  answered  the  boy,  rolling  up  the 


A    Timely  Pheno7nenoii.  25 

skirts  of  his  butternut  "  warmus  "  with  uneasy  hands. 
"I  s'poseso." 

"Come  here,"  said  the  father,  tenderly.  The  boy 
slipped  forward  and  laid  his  hand  in  the  great,  gaunt 
palm  that  opened  to  receive  it.  "  You  know  your  father 
may  not  live  very  long,  and  then  your  mother  will  have 
no  one  but  you  to  care  for  her.  It  will  be  a  hard  thing 
for  a  boy,  and  you  must  grow  to  be  a  man  very  soon. 
Now,  I  want  you  to  promise  to  take  good  care  of  your 
mother." 

"  Oh,  I'll  do  it !  I'll  do  it  !"  exclaimed  the  lad  weep- 
iny  passionately,  "  Don't  be  troubled  a  bit ;  I'll  take 
care  of  her,  and  you,  too,  if  you'll  just  live  and  let  me 
have  Pomp  to  do  it  with.  I  tell  you,  father,  I  could 
make  a  thousand  dollars  out  of  him  next  summer,  just 
as  easy  as  not.  How  much  has  Uncle  Horace  made  on 
Queen,  and  she  ain't  nowhere  beside  the  colt  ?" 

There  was  no  attempt  to  suppress  the  laughter  now\ 
The  incorrigible  boy  had  disarmed  reproof.  The  uncle 
laughed  as  loud  as  he  dared  in  the  sick-room,  the 
mother  whirled  her  chair  quickly  round,  and  catching 
the  boy  to  her  breast,  sobbed  and  laughed  on  his 
shoulder.  The  father  laughed  feebly,  too,  until  the 
sweat  started  on  his  forehead  and  he  motioned  toward 
the  stand  on  the  other  side  of  the  bed,  on  which  stood 
a  blue  bowl  containing  a  cooling  draught.  The  boy 
caught  the  gesture  first,  and  bringing  the  bowl,  held  it 
carefully  to  his  father's  lips.  When  the  invalid  had 
drank  and  the  bowl  had  been  replaced,  he  called  the  lad 
to  him,  and  putting  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  said  : 

"  You  are  a  good  boy,  Hubert,  and  I  hope  you  will 
think  of  something  beside  horses,  when  the  time  comes. 
I  think  I  can  trust  you,  and  I  want  you  to  know  that  I 
do  trust  you  never  to  do  an }i;hing  unmanly,  that  will  give 
sorrow  to  your  mother  or  bring  discredit  on  your  name. 


26  A   Son  of  Old  Harry. 

But  I  want  you  to  promise  me  that  if  I  should  die,  you 
will  not  worry  your  mother  by  running  horses  or  get- 
ting into  needless  danger.     "Will  you  do  it  T* 

"  Oh,  you  know  I  will,  father — I  will  do — anything — 
if  you  only  won't  die  !" 

"  Life  and  death  are  of  God,  my  son,"  said  the  father 
solemnly.  "  When  he  calls  I  must  answer.  Will  you 
make  it  easy  for  me  by  promising  not  to  run  a  race  or 
ride  an  unbroken  horse  until  you  are  eighteen  years 
old  ?" 

"  But,  father — "  pleaded  the  lad,  desperately. 

"  I  want  to  be  sure  that  your  mother  will  not  be  left 
alone  in  the  world,  my  child." 

The  promise  was  given  ;  the  weeping  lad  kissed  the 
parched  lips,  and  the  mother  led  him  sobbing  from  the 
room.  The  invalid  sank  down  wearily,  and  the  brother 
carefully  arranged  the  pillows  and  clothing  of  the  bed. 

"  Johnnie  says  he  wants  to  ask  you  just  one  question," 
said  the  mother,  re-entering  the  room  after  a  few  min- 
utes, with  the  boy  by  her  side.  "  He  seemed  so  anxious  I 
could  not  refuse  him." 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ?"  asked  the  sick  man,  in  a  feeble 
voice. 

"  If — if — you  shouldn't  die,  you  can  take  care  of 
mother,  can't  you  ?" 

"  I  trust  I  may  be  able  to  do  so,"  answered  the  father, 
with  difficulty  repressing  a  smile. 

"Then — what  I  promised,"  sobbed  the  lad,  "  ain't  no 
promise,  if — if  you  don't  die,  T  s'pose  ?" 

There  was  a  choking  sound  at  the  head  of  the  bed  as 
Uncle  Horace  caught  a  corner  of  the  pillow  against 
which  the  sick  man  leaned  and  stuffed  it  in  his  mouth. 

"  O  dear  !"  sighed  the  father,  petulantly.  "Yes,  yes 
— if  I  get  well  you  may  ride  all  the  time.  Seems  as  if 
you  could  think  of  nothing  but  horses  and  races." 


A    Timely  PJienoinenon.  27 

"  It  ain't  that,  father,"  exclaimed  the  boy,  as  he  ran 
forward  and  buried  his  face  in  the  bed-clothes  ;  "  but  I 
should  hate  to  think  you  hadn't  as  much  confidence  in 
me  as  other  folks  have  in  their  boys.  I  wouldn't  mind 
not  riding — not  so  very  much,  that  is — but  I'd  hate  to 
own  that  you  wouldn't  let  me  ride  at  all." 

The  father's  face  lightened,  and  his  hand  stole  out 
and  rested  on  the  bowed  head. 

"  You  are  a  good  boy,  Hubert,  and  it  gives  me  great 
comfort  to  know  that  you  think  of  others  instead  of 
yourself.     Perhaps  I  was  over-anxious." 

"  I  would  rather  never  see  ahorse  again  than  have  you 
so  troubled  about  me  !"  exclaimed  the  boy. 

"  I've  been  talking  with  him,  Seth,"  said  the  wife, 
hesitantly,  "  about — about  the  colt,  and  I  would  like  to 
tell  you  what  his  idea  is.  I  know  you're  tired,  but  I'm 
sure  'twould  do  you  good  just  to  know  how  far  ahead 
the  boy's  been  looking,  and  how  much  he's  been  thinking 
about  the  very  things  that  are  troubling  you.  If  the 
worst  comes,  I'm  sure  you'd  feel  better  to  know  about 
it." 

The  good  woman  was  not  afraid  of  her  husband  in  the 
sense  of  having  any  apprehension  as  to  his  kindliness  of 
heart.  Seth  Goodwin  was  a  model  husband,  as  he  was 
a  model  man  in  all  things  that  go  to  make  up  a  good 
neighbor  and  a  good  citizen  ;  but  he  was  masterful  and 
strong,  and  felt  himself  quite  competent  to  do  the  think- 
ing for  all  those  in  whom  he  was  interested.  This 
characteristic  had  been  emphasized  by  his  illness,  and 
his  wife  hesitated  to  offer  a  suggestion  which  might  con- 
flict with  his  imperious  will  and  so  prove  deleterious  to 
the  welfare  of  the  invalid.  It  was  only  as  a  result  of 
the  lad's  persistence,  who  was  as  self-willed  as  his  father, 
that  she  had  ventured  to  prefer  so  extraordinary  a 
request. 


28  A  Soil  of  Old  Harry. 

"  1  think  you  ought  to  hear  it,  Seth  ;  I  really  do,"  the 
mother  repeated. 

**  He's  pretty  tired,"  said  the  brother,  after  telegraph- 
ing in  vain  from  his  place  at  the  head  of  the  bed  for 
her  to  refrain  from  troubling  the  invalid  further. 

**  I'll  hear  it,"  said  the  elder,  irritably,  resenting  the 
implication  of  weakness. 

"  Well,  you  see,"  continued  the  mother,  smoothing 
out  her  apron  and  looking  deprecatingly  at  her  hus- 
band, "  Johnny  thinks  he  is — well — something  remark- 
able— the  colt,  I  mean." 

"  Boys  always  think  their  own  things  better  than 
anybody  else  ever  had." 

"But  he's  hunted  up  the  colt's  pedigree,  Seth," 
insisted  the  wife,  desperately ;  "  and  you  know  you 
said  yourself  that  the  dam,  old  Fanny,  was  the  most 
remarkable  horse  you  ever  owned," 

"  I  didn't  mean  as  a  racer." 

"  But  there  wasn't  anything  in  these  parts  that  could 
get  away  from  her  in  her  prime,  all  the  same,"  inter- 
posed the  brother,  emphatically. 

"  I  s'pose  you  know,"  was  the  peevish  rejoinder. 

"  I  do  that,"  was  the  unabashed  reply.  "  I  won  more 
dollars  on  her  when  we  first  came  here,  than  I  made 
by  day's  work." 

'*  That  is  no  credit  to  you,  Horace,"  said  the  sick 
man,  reprovingly. 

"  I  s'pose  not,"  answered  the  brother,  jocosely  ;  "  but 
it  is  to  her  foal ;  and  you  must  remember  there's  not 
many  people  hereabouts  that  wouldn't  take  Hod  Good- 
win's opinion  about  a  horse  sooner  than  they  would  his 
brother's.  He  ain't  half  as  good,  but  he  knows  a  horse, 
don't  you  see." 

"  Well,  what's  all  this  got  to  do  with  the  boy  ?  I 
hope  you  don't  want  him  to  be  a  horse-jockey,  Susan  ?" 


.  /    Timely  Phejiontenon.  29 

"  He  says  the  colt  is  very  fast,  and  has  what  he  calls 
*  bottom,'  "  said  the  mother. 

"  Well,  suppose  he  has  ?" 

"  Why,  don't  you  see,  father,"  protested  the  boy,  lift- 
ing his  head  quickly  and  speaking  hurriedly,  as  if  fear- 
ful that  he  might  not  be  allowed  to  finish  his  remarks, 
"  if  he's  handled  right  he'll  pay  off  every  cent  of  the 
mortgage,  and  you  needn't  trouble  another  bit  about  it, 
but  just  lie  still  and  get  well." 

'*  That 's  sense,  anyhow,"  rejoined  Horace,  emphat- 
ically. 

"  I  would  rather  my  debts  should  never  be  paid  than 
be  discharged  by  betting  on  a  horse-race  or  any  other 
sort  of  gambling,"  said  the  father,  sternly. 

"  Knew  he'd  say  that  !"  muttered  Horace,  shaking 
his  head.  "  I'd  have  helped  him  out  long  ago  ;  could 
have  done  it  just  as  easy  as  not,  but  he  wouldn't  have 
my  money." 

*'  You  didn't  have  any,"  said  the  sick  man,  impa- 
tiently. 

"  But  I  could  have  gotten  it,  and  you  knew  I  could." 

"  By  risking  what  you  had  ?" 

"  Of  course.  You  know  I  don't  bet  except  to  get  a 
little  spending  money,  and  now  and  then  to  buy  a  new 
horse,  but  I'd  have  strained  my  luck  for  you  any  time, 
and  will  now,  if  you'll  let  me." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  Horace,  but — " 

"  But  John  says  it  isn't  necessary  to  do  any  betting 
at  all — of  course  he  knows  you  wouldn't  allow  that.  He 
says  if  you'll  let  him  and  Uncle  Horace  handle  the 
colt,  he'll  sell  for  more'n  the  mortgage  amounts  to, 
long  before  Kincaid  can  turn  us  out,"  interrupted  the 
wife. 

"  Now,  that's  an  idea  worth  having,"  said  the  brother- 
in-law,  heartily.      "  Kincaid  can't  get  you  off  the  place 


30  A  Son  of  Old  Haj'ry. 

before  October,  anyhow  ;  you  told  me  that  yourself ; 
and  if  Jack's  right  about  the  colt  outsteppin'  the  Queen, 
there's  big  money  in  him  if  he's  handled,  and  I'm  the 
one  to  do  it.  Seth,  if  you  don't  take  back  all  the  scold- 
ing you've  given  the  boy  over  this  matter,  and  thank 
God  for  giving  you  such  a  son,  you  ain't  the  man  I  take 
you  to  be — that's  all.  He  may  not  be  as  careful  about 
his  pronouns  and  adverbs  as  you'd  like  to  have  him,  but 
you  just  let  him  alone  and  he'll  steer  things.  Hanged 
if  I  wouldn't  marry  myself  if  I  could  have  a  boy  like 
him.  You  can  go  to  sleep,  now.  Providence  has  taken 
care  of  your  affairs  in  spite  of  your  thinking  it  couldn't 
be  done  without  your  help.  All  you've  got  to  do  is  to 
get  well  and  enjoy  your  good  luck.  Kiss  the  boy  now 
and  let  him  clear  out.     You  must  go  to  sleep." 

"  rd  like  some  broth  first,"  said  the  invalid,  with  a 
look  of  relief  on  his  face  that  had  not  been  there  for 
weeks. 

"  Good  for  you  !"  exclaimed  the  brother.  "  How  long 
since  he's  asked  for  anything  to  eat  before,  Susan? 
Hurry  it  up  before  he  changes  his  mind.  And  Jack, 
you  can  ride  the  colt  as  much  as  you're  a  mind  to ; 
didn't  I  hear  you  say  so,  Seth  ?" 

"  If  he'll  only  be  careful,"  answered  the  father,  humor- 
ing his  brother's  conceit. 

"  Oh,  I'll  be  careful,  father — I  won't  ever  get  on  a 
horse  without  thinking  of  you — I  won't,  truly." 

The  boy  leaned  over  and  kissed  his  father  tenderly. 

"  And  see  here,  sir,"  said  the  uncle,  taking  the  lad  by 
the  coat-collar,  "  I'm  going  to  lick  you  every  day  until 
your  father  gets  well !" 

"  You  may,  you  may,  Uncle  Horace  ;  I  won't  mind — 
if  I  may  ride  the  colt,"  was  the  gleeful  response. 

"  All  right ;  now  go  and  rub  down  those  horses  and 


Conjidejice  Born  of  Knowledge.  31 

give  them  a  feed.  I'll  come  and  take  another  look  at 
the  colt  after  awhile." 

A  strange  sense  of  peace  and  hope  settled  down  upon 
the  Goodwin  household  that  night.  The  black  giant 
Despair  fled  away,  and  sweet  sleep  rested  upon  the  long- 
troubled  home. 

Seth  Goodwin's  illness  "  took  a  turn"  that  day,  so  the 
neighbors  said,  and  from  that  time  he  began  to  mend. 


CHAPTER    II. 


CONFIDENCE    BORN    OF    KNOWLEDGE. 

Why  Seth  Goodwin  began  to  improve  in  health 
just  when  he  did  was  almost  as  great  a  puzzle  to  his 
physician  as  why  he  had  not  done  so  before.  The 
simple  fact  was  that  he  had  begun  to  hope.  He  had 
waked  out  of  the  fever  which  his  stalwart  frame  had  so 
long  resisted,  with  the  one  thought  still  dominant  in  his 
mind  which  had  been  uppermost  when  he  lost  conscious- 
ness, that  on  the  first  day  of  January  he  must  pay  one 
thousand  dollars,  or  his  bond  would  be  forfeited  and  his 
creditor  might  sell  as  soon  as  he  could  get  judgment. 
The  property  covered  by  the  mortgage  was  really 
worth  several  times  the  amount  of  his  debt  ;  but  in  the 
existing  condition  of  affairs  it  was  doubtful  if  the  whole 
farm  would  bring  the  necessary  sum,  though  it  was  only 
a  moiety  of  the  price  he  had  agreed  to  pay  for  half  of  it. 
Values  had  shrunk  terribly,  and  he  had  already  sold 
everything  that  could  be  spared,  to  meet  a  payment 
due   six  months  before.      His  son's  words  had  shown 


A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 


a  possible  way  of  escape,  which,  slender  as  it  seemed 
to  the  brother,  was  sufficient  to  lighten  his  despair. 

As  is  usual  with  persons  affected  with  morbid  fancies, 
he  went  at  once  to  the  other  extreme.  As  hitherto  he 
had  no  hope,  he  had  now  no  doubt.  He  accepted  with- 
out hesitation  the  boy's  notion  that  the  colt  would  pull 
him  out  of  all  his  difficulties.  As  it  was  deemed  impor- 
tant to  keep  up  his  spirits,  no  one  questioned  or  contra- 
dicted what  he  said  about  the  matter.  The  result  was 
that  when  he  was  at  length  able  to  leave  his  bed,  he  was 
possessed  with  a  hopefulness  as  unreasonable  as  his  for- 
mer depression.  He  was  very  weak,  however,  and  it 
was  decided  that  Horace  should  remain  to  assist,  or, 
more  properly,  carry  on  the  spring's  work,  to  facilitate 
which  the  Queen  and  the  colt  were  to  constitute  a  sup- 
plemental team.  After  that  was  over,  the  brother  was 
to  take  such  steps  as  might  seem  desirable  in  order  to 
realize  upon  the  colt  from  the  sale  of  which  so  much  was 
expected.  How  this  was  to  be  accomplished,  Seth 
Goodwin  seemed  to  have  no  more  idea  than  he  had 
doubt  as  to  the  result.  Forbidden  by  the  physcian's 
orders  from  taking  any  part  in  the  labors  of  the  farm, 
he  surrendered  everything  into  his  brother's  hand  with 
a  calm  confidence  in  the  outcome,  which,  though  at 
curious  variance  with  his  previous  character,  was  the 
result  of  the  same  deep  religious  fervor  which  had  recon- 
ciled him  to  the  thought  of  death,  even  when  he 
could  foresee  only  want  and  difficulty  for  those  he  loved. 
His  hope  was  of  God,  as  well  as  his  submission.  As  he 
had  trusted  Him  in  his  darkest  hours,  so  he  praised  Him 
now  in  his  brighter  moments. 

To  his  family,  this  change  in  the  father's  character 
was  very  puzzling.  He  had  always  been  a  kind  husband 
and  loving  parent,  but  anxious,  severe  and  irritable. 
Every  day  he  had  discounted  to-morrow's  trouble,  and 


ConJide7iee  Born  of  Knowledge.  '}^2i 

sought  to  anticipate  to-morrow's  burdens.  Striving 
always  for  the  best,  he  had  feared  always  the  worst. 
Now,  however,  he  was  light-hearted,  confident,  careless. 
The  boy,  whose  love  for  his  father  had  before  been 
tinged  with  fear,  found  him  now  the  pleasantest  of  com- 
panions ;  and  his  wife,  who  had  regarded  him  with 
something  of  awe,  both  from  his  riper  years  and  some- 
what stern  and  serious  character,  began  to  give  way  to 
her  natural  light-heartedness  as  she  saw  how  her  gayety 
harmonized  with  his  inclination. 

To  his  neighbors  the  change  was  so  startling  that  one 
and  all  attributed  it  to  preternatural  causes.  His  deep 
religious  character  and  the  composure  he  had  manifested 
in  the  face  of  death,  gave  some  color  to  this  hypothesis, 
and  it  was  soon  noised  abroad  that  Seth  Goodwin  had 
experienced  "  sanctification,"  and  was  "  delivered  for- 
ever from  the  power  of  sin."  It  is  doubtful  if  this  idea 
had  occurred  to  him  until  after  it  was  suggested  ;  but 
it  was  eagerly  accepted,  and  belief  in  its  verity  served 
very  greatly  to  confirm  the  mental  composure  on  which 
it  was  based.  If  he  did  not  quite  believe  that  sin  was 
impossible  with  him,  he  for  the  first  time  accepted  the 
idea  that  his  purposes  and  inclinations  were  right,  and 
that  what  he  desired  to  do  could  not  in  itself  be  wrong. 

All  this,  his  brother,  careless  and  worldly-minded,  was 
unable  to  comprehend,  and  it  was  with  unfeigned  aston- 
ishment that  he  found  him  entering  heartily  into  his  own 
plans  for  the  colt,  on  whose  qualities  the  hope  of  the 
future  seemed  to  depend.  The  invalid  made  frequent 
allusions  to  the  subject,  and  sometimes  rebuked  his 
brother  for  seeming  apathy  in  regard  to  it  ;  but  Horace 
skilfully  avoided  any  extended  consideration  of  the  mat- 
ter until  the  spring's  work  upon  the  farm  was  well 
advanced  and  his  brother's  health  so  far  restored  that 
he   was   able  to   sit  up   the  greater  portion  of  the  day. 


34  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

His  recovery  was  very  slow,  if  recovery  it  was,  and  the 
once  busy,  anxious  man  watched  the  springtime  pass 
away  with  a  strange  absence  of  apprehension  for  the 
future,  and  without  manifesting  any  special  desire  either 
to  assist  or  direct  the  work  which  was  going  on  about 
him. 

"  What  are  your  plans  about  the  colt,  Seth  ?"  he  finally 
asked  one  afternoon  when  the  planting  was  over  and  a 
warm  April  shower  had  just  come  in  time  to  start  the 
waiting  seeds.  It  had  cleared  away  and  the  first  rain- 
bow of  the  season  was  painted  on  the  retreating  storm- 
cloud  in  the  eastern  sky  by  the  level  rays  of  the  setting 
sun.  Seth  Goodwin  sat  in  a  great  splint-bottom  rocker 
watching  the  pictured  clouds,  from  the  window  of  the 
room  which  he  had  occupied  during  his  illness.  His 
face  had  lighted  up  as  if  the  effulgence  of  the  bow  of 
promise  were  reflected  in  it.  Horace  sat  near  him,  in 
his  shirt-sleeves,  just  as  he  had  come  scurrying  in  from 
the  field  to  avoid  the  rain.  He  had  watched  his  brother 
narrowly  during  the  storm  and  seemed  depressed  rather 
than  cheered  by  the  quiet  contentedness  of  his  man- 
ner. 

"  Oh,  you  just  put  him  in  shape,  Horace,  and  take 
him  East  and  sell  him.  There  isn't  anybody  else  can  do 
as  well  with  him  as  you.  He's  gained  every  day  he's 
been  at  work,  and  is  looking  splendidly  now." 

Seth  Goodwin  did  not  know  the  care  that  had  been 
taken  not  to  over-work  or  even  weary  the  animal  on 
whose  value  so  much  depended.  Horace  had  allowed 
no  one  else  to  touch  the  reins  ;  and  in  addition  to  giv- 
ing this  team  the  lightest  work,  had  taken  the  precau- 
tion to  shift  the  pivot  of  the  doubletree  well  over 
toward  the  end  to  which  the  mare  was  attached,  thus 
lightening  the  colt's  load.  The  colt  had  never  been 
allowed  to  get  tired  or  discouraged,  but  had  had  plenty 


Confidence  Boi'u  of  Knozvlcdge.  35 

of  good,  toughening  exercise.  When  it  was  over,  he 
was  rather  low  in  flesh ,  but  his  tendons  were  like  steel 
and  his  coat  as  soft  and  shining  as  if  he  had  been  under 
the  trainer's  hand. 

In  the  meantime,  Horace  had  studied  him  very  care- 
fully. To  the  careless  reader  such  prolonged  scrutiny 
ma}'-,  no  doubt,  seem  to  have  been  unnecessary.  There 
is  a  general  impression  that  certain  men  are  gifted  with 
an  instinctive  power  to  determine  at  a  glance  the  quali- 
ties and  capacity  of  a  horse  ;  but  every  true  lover  of  the 
animal  knows  that  one  might  just  as  well  attempt  to 
select  a  lyric  poet  by  inspection,  as  a  successful  race- 
horse. So  many  qualities  are  essential  to  a  well- 
founded  hope,  so  many  mental  as  -well  as  physical  attri- 
butes to  be  considered,  that  the  experienced  horseman 
fully  understands  that  only  he  who  has  "  summered 
and  wintered  with  a  horse,"  studying  his  every  move- 
ment, watching  the  play  of  his  muscles,  the  action  of 
his  limbs,  the  beat  of  his  pulse,  the  swell  of  his  nostrils, 
his  digestion,  endurance,  and  especially  his  temper,  is 
able  to  give  a  reliable  opinion,  not  only  as  to  what  he  is 
able  to  do,  but  what  he  is  likely  to  be  willing  to  do 
under  given  conditions.  It  was  not  without  good  rea- 
sons, therefore,  that  Horace  Goodwin  followed  the  colt 
day  after  day  in  the  furrow.  He  knew  very  well  that 
there  is  no  place  where  one  learns  so  thoroughly  the 
real  qualities  of  a  horse  as  by  constant  observation  of 
him  while  engaged  in  some  regular  work.  In  that 
manner  alone  can  one  become  entirely  familiar  with 
his  physical  qualities,  learn  what  reliance  is  to  be  placed 
on  his  power  of  endurance,  and  especially  whether  he  be 
endowed  with  that  courage  which,  while  submitting  to 
needed  restraint,  is  of  that  fine  quality  which  bids 
defiance  to  fatigue,  and  when  he  has  done  his  seeming 
best,  responds  with  willingness  to  the  demand  for  more. 


36  A   Soil  of  Old  Harry. 

Horace  Goodwin  had  determined  to  attempt  a  bold 
stroke,  if  his  observations  confirmed  his  nephew's  judg- 
ment of  the  colt's  qualities.  While  he  did  not  rely  upon 
the  boy's  opinion,  he  did  not  neglect  the  fact  that  the 
lad,  though  without  extensive  knowledge  of  horses,  had 
a  natural  aptitude  for  horsemanship,  and,  by  a  careful 
study  of  his  favorite,  had  arrived  at  an  estimate  of  his 
capabilities,  which  was  by  no  means  to  be  lightly  dis- 
carded. His  own  reputation  as  a  horseman  demanded, 
however,  that  this  opinion  should  be  confirmed  by  his 
own  carefully  matured  judgment. 

This  young  man  was  by  nature  a  gambler.  He 
delighted  in  great  risks.  He  loved  to  do  unexpected 
and  surprising  things.  While  not  averse  to  labor,  the 
drudgery  of  slow  accumulation  was  intensely  distasteful 
to  him.  Fond  as  he  was  of  the  horse,  he  had  an 
ineradicable  aversion  for  farm-life.  He  could  endure 
any  sort  of  privation  in  order  to  accomplish  some  start- 
ling result,  but  the  almost  inappreciable  gain  resulting 
from  daily  application  was  irksome  beyond  expression 
to  him.  He  was  willing  to  stake  everything  he  had 
upon  a  single  stroke,  but  he  would  not  do  it  without 
full  comprehension  of  the  chances  for  and  against  suc- 
cess. Though  a  gambler  by  nature,  he  was  something 
more  than  a  mere  dice-thrower.  He  delighted  to  base 
his  hope  upon  knowledge,  and  had  in  him  much  of  the 
material  of  which  the  successful  speculator  is  made. 

In  the  present  case  he  had  many  incentives  to 
caution.  He  had  fully  determined  to  effect  his 
brother's  release  from  the  incubus  of  debt  in  one  way 
or  another.  He  had  become  satisfied  that  the  mare. 
Queen,  was  possessed  of  trotting  qualities  of  rare  excel- 
lence, and  as  this  sport  had  lately  sprung  into  special 
favor  at  the  East,  he  had  intended  to  train  her  carefully 
and  enter  her  as  an  unknown  in  some  of  the  races  where 


Confidence  Born  of  Knowledge,  37 

the  odds  would  be  tremendously  in  her  favor.  He 
counted  upon  borrowing  enough  to  take  advantage  of 
these  conditions,  and  hoped  that  what  he  might  win  in 
stakes  and  wagers,  supplemented,  if  need  be,  by  the 
sale  of  the  mare,  would  enable  him  to  pay  oflE  his 
brother's  bond  before  he  could  be  dispossessed  by  legal 
process.  It  was  not  a  very  large  sum,  but  a  horse 
worth  a  thousand  dollars  was  then  very  rare. 

The  hope  of  discovering  a  winner  was  not  so  wild  as 
it  seemed.  The  trotting  horse  had  not  then  become  a 
scientific  fact.  Prodigies  were  still  numerous  upon  the 
trotting  turf.  Each  year  developed  some  new  won- 
der, and  it  was  hardly  an  unusual  thing  to  find  the  last 
year's  favorite  superseded  by  one  which  twelve  months 
before  had  been  hitched  to  plow  or  cart.  Horace  Good- 
win had  watched  the  principal  events  of  the  previous 
season,  and  felt  that  he  could  safely  rely  upon  the 
Queen  to  give  a  good  account  of  herself  with  such  com- 
petitors. She  was  in  her  prime,  sound  as  a  dollar, 
toughened  by  exertion,  familiar  with  the  track,  and 
only  needed,  as  he  thought,  to  have  the  trotting-gait  she 
had  always  preferred  developed  and  confirmed  to  show 
not  only  speed  but  the  ability  to  win  races. 

The  suggestion  in  regard  to  the  colt  had  changed  his 
plan  by  adding  to  it  another  possible  chance  for  success, 
as  well  as  another  possible  opportunity  to  enhance  his 
renown  as  a  horseman.  Next  to  the  relief  of  his 
brother's  necessity,  he  counted  the  pleasure  of  a 
triumph  on  the  turf.  To  have  two  strings  to  his  bow 
and  be  the  possessor  of  two  "  surprises  "  at  the  same 
time  was  a  rapture  he  had  never  dreamed  of  before. 
The  fact  that  he  found  himself  dreaming  of  it  now 
rendered  him  distrustful  and  uneasy  rather  than  con- 
fident. He  began  to  think  that  his  imagination  had 
run  away  with  his  judgment. 


38  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

His  study  of  the  colt  had  been  unusually  careful, 
therefore,  and  his  disinclination  to  pronounce  an  opinion 
upon  his  merits  had  proceeded  not  only  from  considera- 
tion for  his  brother's  interests,  but  also  from  a  keen 
desire  to  avoid  a  decision  that  would  reflect  discredit 
upon  himself.  He  felt  that  his  reputation  as  a  horse- 
man was  at  stake,  and  he  would  almost  rather  have 
abandoned  the  hope  of  relieving  his  brother  than  have 
suffered  that  to  be  tarnished.  He  understood  how  easy 
it  is  to  be  mistaken  in  regard  to  an  untried  horse,  and 
determined  not  to  err  from  any  lack  of  study  of  the 
subject.  Twice,  after  a  day  or  two  of  rest,  he  had  tested 
the  colt's  speed  at  night  along  the  *'  measured  mile." 
Once  the  boy  had  ridden  him  and  the  uncle  had  ridden 
the  mare  ;  the  other  time  he  had  gone  out  alone,  lightly 
clad,  with  spurred  heels  and  a  rawhide  at  his  wrist,  and 
ridden  the  colt  at  speed  along  the  "measured  mile." 
It  was  a  race  against  time.  He  had  no  watch  to  tell 
the  seconds,  but  he  could  make  a  good  guess  at  com- 
parative speed.  Besides  that,  he  wanted  to  feel  how 
the  colt  would  run  under  a  heavy  weight,  so  as  to  be 
able  to  judge  of  his  prowess,  and  to  test  for  himself  his 
courage,  to  decide  whether  he  would  endure  pressure, 
and  in  the  climax  of  his  effort  respond  to  an  appeal  for 
more.  When  he  had  reached  the  end  of  the  course  he 
dismounted,  quickly  applied  his  ear  to  the  colt's  chest, 
counted  the  heart-beats,  held  the  nostrils  a  moment, 
and  then  listened  at  the  swelling  flank  ;  stood  off  and 
watched  him,  as,  with  outstretched  neck  and  observing 
eye,  he  recovered  from  his  effort  with  deep,  even  sus- 
pirations.  Then  he  felt  of  each  leg,  one  after  the  other  ; 
stood  in  front  of  the  animal  and  looked  him  over  sharply, 
while  the  colt's  bright  eyes  watched  curiously  his  own 
movements.  Having  finished  his  observations,  he 
threw  the  bridle  over  his  arm  and  walked  briskly  home, 


Confidence  Boj^n  of  Knowledge.  39 

nodding  his  head,  now  and  then  snapping  his  fingers  at 
his  thoughts.  He  did  not  trust  himself  to  put  them 
into  words  by  whispering  them  even  to  himself,  and  the 
colt  probably  wondered  why  Mr.  Horace  Goodwin  was 
so  considerate  as  to  walk  back  to  the  stable,  instead  of 
riding. 

"  Oh,  I  can  put  him  in  condition  easy  enough,"  said 
Horace,  replying  to  his  brother's  suggestion  ;  "  but  he 
must — you  see — well,  I  suppose  you  know  his  value 
depends  on  what  he  can  do — how  fast  he  can  go." 

"Of  course,"  answered  the  other,  simply.  Horace 
looked  into  his  brother's  peaceful  face  in  unaffected 
surprise. 

"  And  you  understand  that  what  he  can  do  can  only 
be  determined — in  one  way  ?" 

"  By  a  race,  you  mean  ?" 

"Certainly." 

"  You  might  arrange  one  with  the  Queen." 

The  younger  brother  shook  his  head  in  emphatic 
amazement  at  his  brother's  innocence. 

"  No  use,"  he  said,  shortly.  "  Everybody  would  say 
it  was  a  put-up  job,  and  it  would  hurt  both  of  them. 
To  make  a  reputation,  the  colt's  got  to  run  against 
something  that  has  a  reputation  and  is  run  to  beat ;  and 
he  must  either  win  or  come  so  near  winning  that  any 
one  can  see  he  ought  to  have  won.  You  see,  it  isn't  so 
much  the  question  what  he  can  do  as  what  he  will  do  on 
the  track  against  another  that  makes  a  horse  worth 
dollars  instead  of  dimes." 

"  So  I  suppose." 

"You  don't  object  to  my  making  a  match  for  him, 
then  ?" 

"  I  cannot  countenance  betting,"  answered  the  other, 
firmly. 


40  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

"  But  you  have  no  objection  to  his  running,  if  you  are 
not  required  to  back  him?" 

"  I  can  hardly  say  I  have  no  objection,  Horace,"  said 
the  other,  gravely  ;  "  but  if  the  Lord  is  kind  enough  to 
lift  me  out  of  trouble  by  sending  me  an  exceptionally 
valuable  beast,  I  do  not  think  I  have  any  right  to  scorn 
His  bounty  by  refusing  to  allow  an  opportunity  to  show 
his  value," 

"  Exactly.  Well,  that's  sensible,  anyhow,"  replied 
Horace,  with  an  intonation  of  relief. 

"  I  wouldn't  want  to  keep  on  running  him,  but,  just 
to  find  out  what's  in  him,  I  think  I've  a  right — " 

"  Of  course  you  have,"  interrupted  Horace.  He  was 
afraid  the  other  would  see  the  weakness  of  his  own 
casuistry  and  revoke  the  leave  he  had  granted.  He 
need  not  have  had  any  such  apprehension.  Seth  Good- 
win had  decided  that  it  was  not  sinful  for  him  to  take 
this  course.  This  decision  had  made  him  happy,  and 
he  had  come  to  test  questions  of  right  and  wrong  more 
by  the  "  inner  light "  than  by  any  established  ethical  rule. 
It  may  have  been  delusive,  but  it  was  a  very  comfort- 
able way  of  looking  at  a  troublesome  question. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  the  colt,  anj^how,  Horace  ?" 
asked  the  owner,  with  some  show  of  uneasiness. 

"  He's  a  good  deal  of  a  horse,"  answered  the  brother, 
cautiously,  "  and  it's  all  the  better  it  wasn't  found  out 
until  he  was  well  grown." 

"  I  should  have  broken  him  before,  but  I  had  no  use 
-or  him,  and  I  thought  it  was  just  as  well  he  should  be 
in  the  pasture,  so  I  only  used  him  enough  to  keep  him 
bridle-wise,"  commented  the  invalid,  complacently. 

**  I  suspect  somebody  else  used  him  more  than  you 
did,"  the  brother  added  with  a  meaning  smile. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 


Confidence  Born  of  K7j,owledgc.  41 

"  I've  a  notion  that  Hubert  has  ridden  him  about  the 
pasture  more  than  you  imagine." 

"  But  Number  2,  the  pasture  where  he  has  always 
been  kept,  is  a  mile  away,  and  only  half  cleared,"  said 
the  father  in  surprise. 

"  Well,  Jack  is  a  dozen  years  old.  Jumping  over 
logs  and  stumps  was  good  exercise  for  the  colt  and 
splendid  training  for  the  boy,"  answered  the  brother. 
"  Don't  be  troubled,  Seth,"he  continued  ;  "it  won't  hurt 
the  lad  for  anything  else  to  be  a  good  horseman,  and 
that  he  certainly  is — the  best  for  his  years  and  inches  I 
ever  saw." 

"  And  you  think  he's  right  about  what  the  colt  can 
do?" 

"  Beat  the  Queen,  you  mean  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  think  so — haven't  any  doubt  of  it ;  though  no  one 
ever  knows  just  what  the  old  girl  will  do  to-day  by  what 
she  did  yesterday." 

*'  His  dam  was  a  good  one.  Nothing  ever  discouraged 
her.  You  remember  when  we  moved  out  here,  Horace, 
we  had  to  lay  over  for  the  other  horses  to  rest  three  or 
four  times  ;  but  old  Fan  was  always  ready  to  start — too 
ready,  in  fact,"  commented  the  elder,  musingly. 

"And  the  colt  was  sired  by  Abdallah  ?"  rejoined  the 
brother. 

"  I  don't  know,"  was  the  reply.  "  You  remember  I 
sold  the  mare,  and  the  purchaser  let  her  run  down  until 
she  was  thin  as  a  shadow.  That  was  always  the  way 
with  the  old  girl — let  a  fool  drive  her  and  she'd  run  her- 
self into  the  grave,  no  matter  how  well  she  was  fed. 
She  was  getting  on  in  years  and  the  man  thought  she 
was  going  to  die  on  his  hands,  and  sold  her  back  to  me 
for  a  song.  I  turned  her  out  to  grass  ;  the  fall  feed  was 
good  ;  she  stood  the  winter  well  and   the  foal  was  as 


42  yl  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

pretty  a  fellow  as  I  ever  saw.  The  next  year  she  took 
a  hard  cold  and  went  off  in  a  month  as  if  she  had  quick 
consumption." 

"  I  suppose  she  had." 

"  Very  likely.  I  don't  see  why  horses  shouldn't  have 
it  as  well  as  people,  and  I  never  saw  a  place  where  there 
was  so  much  of  it  as  right  about  here.  I've  heard  the 
sire  was  Abdallah,  but  never  quite  believed  the    story." 

'*  There's  no  doubt  of  it." 

**  I'm  almost  sorry,"  said  the  brother,  in  a  dissatisfied 
tone.  "  They're  boasting  a  good  deal  about  his  stock 
now,  especially  for  trotting  nags,  but  I  haven't  much 
opinion  of  him  or  of  trotters,  either.  It  is  a  strained, 
unnatural  gait — fast  trotting,  I  mean ;  and  the  horse 
that  trots  instead  of  galloping  is  a  sort  of  monstrosity. 
I'm  sorry  its  coming  into  favor  again.  As  for  Abdallah, 
I  saw  him  once  ;  a  mean,  rat-tailed,  ill-proportioned 
scrub,  with  the  worst  temper  ever  put  inside  a  horse's 
skin." 

"  The  colt's  got  his  share  of  that  ;  but  you  must 
remember  that  descent  from  Abdallah  means  Messen- 
ger blood." 

"  Well,  I,  for  one,  don't  think  as  much  of  Messenger 
blood  as  many  do.  I  think  it  owes  as  much  to  what  it 
has  met  with  as  to  the  qualities  it  brings  " 

The  younger  brother  smiled.  In  that  day,  it  was  still 
permissible  to  doubt  the  excellence  of  the  matchless 
gray  whose  blood  has  since  become  the  most  valuable 
that  ever  coursed  in  equine  veins,  and  there  were  many 
very  capable  horsemen  who  still  regarded  the  trotting 
gait  as  a  serious  mistake. 

"  At  all  events,"  said  Horace,  "  Messenger  blood 
means  '  go  '  to  the  very  death." 

"  I  suppose  that's  so.  Belmont  used  to  say  it  was  a 
strain  of  that  which  made  it  so  hard  to  keep  old  Fan 


Confidence  Born  of  Knowledge.  43 

m  fair  condition  ;  but  she  got  most  of  her  good  qualities 
from  the  other  side." 

"  Did  you  buy  her  of  a  man  named  Belmont  ?"  asked 
the  brother  in  surprise. 

"  Bought  her  at  the  administrator's  sale.  She  was  old 
Loren  Belmont's  favorite  nag.  She  was  past  her  prime 
then,  and,  as  usual  when  she  had  her  own  way,  in  low 
order,  and  went  very  cheap.  She  used  to  be  called  the 
'  Belmont  Mare,'  and  was  a  notable  beast  in  her  day." 

"  I  should  think  so  !"  exclaimed  the  other,  emphatic- 
ally. 

"  I  wanted  her  because  she  was  the  best  walker  I  ever 
saw — the  colt  is  just  like  her  in  that — and  I  knew  such 
a  horse  would  be  worth  her  price  in  a  team  on  a  long 
journey,  if  she  did  nothing  afterward.  Even  a  dull 
horse  will  wake  up  if  he  has  a  quick-stepper  for  a  mate." 

"  So  ?"  said  the  brother,  with  a  long,  low  whistle. 
"  That  accounts  for  some  things.  The  Queen  is  one  of 
her  colts,  too." 

"  Foaled  the  second  year  after  we  got  here.  I  was  a 
fool  to  sell  her,  but  I  needed  money  badly." 

"  Lucky  there  was  a  scapegrace  in  the  family  to  buy 
her  back,"  rejoined  the  brother,  jocosely.  "I  tell  you, 
Seth,  there's  more  money  in  Messenger  blood  than  in 
any  other  stock  that  ever  walked  on  four  legs.  You  see 
they're  always  willing  to  do  their  level  best.  They  may 
be  coarse-built  and  high-strung  and  bad-tempered,  but 
they're  tough  and  determined.  One  of  the  best  things 
that  ever  happened  to  this  country  was  the  landing  of 
that  scraggy  gray  who  couldn't  even  be  made  sea-sick, 
but  was  all  two  men  could  manage  the  very  minute  he 
came  down  the  gang-plank.  His  stock  are  mostly  trot- 
ters, but  I  suppose  the  colt  gets  his  gait  from  the  other 
side.     The  Belmont  Mare  was  a  Bashaw,  I  believe." 

"  Her  dam  was  by  an  Arab." 


44  ^  ^on  of  Old  Harry. 

"  From  a  daughter  of  Messenger  ;  that's  what  I've 
heard." 

"  And  she  was  sired  by  Justin  Morgan." 

"  You  see  the  colt  is  very  well  bred — almost  thorough- 
bred, except  the  Morgan  strain." 

"  Well,  I  believe  Justin  Morgan  was  better  bred  than 
he  gets  credit  for." 

"  It  may  be." 

"  Must  have  been  to  give  out  so  even  and  strongly- 
marked  a  stock.  You  see,  it's  the  average  quality  of  a 
family  of  horses  that  shows  the  breeding,  not  the 
exceptions." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  assented  the  brother,  absently. 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  said  the  invalid,  irritably,  noticing 
the  other's  inattention. 

Horace  looked  anxiously  at  his  brother,  took  his  pipe 
from  his  pocket,  filled  and  lighted  it,  took  a  whiff  or 
two,  cleared  his  throat  and  said  : 

"  If  I  tell  you  just  what  I  think  about  the  colt,  Seth, 
it  won't  upset  you,  nor — anything,  I  s'pose  ?" 

The  other  paled  a  little,  but  answered  brusquely  : 

"Of  course  not." 

"Well,  then,  I  don't  think  there's  above  a  dozen 
horses  in  the  country  can  show  him  their  heels  ;  and  if 
you  can  hold  on  to  him  until  that's  generally  known, 
you  needn't  fuss  about  not  being  able  to  work." 

The  sick  man,  who  had  shown  a  strange  weakness 
since  his  recovery,  put  his  hand  to  his  breast  and 
looked  steadily  out  of  the  window.  His  mouth  twitched 
with  pain,  and  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  The  Lord  has  rebuked  my  want  of  faith,"  he  said, 
solemnly. 

"  The  colt  will  need  to  be  given  a  fair  chance,  of 
course,"  interposed  the  brother,  quickly. 

"  You  will  do  what  you  think  best  with  him,  Horace, 


CoJiJideiice  BorJi  of  Knowledge.  45 

I  don't  want  to  know  anything  about  it.  It  may  not  be 
right,  but  I'll  stand  by  you  and  take  the  blame.  Right 
or  wrong,  it  means  comfort  for  them;'  he  nodded 
towards  the  other  room  where  his  wife  and  his  child 
were.  "  When  I  was  at  the  worst  and  thought  I  was 
going  to  leave  them  unprovided-for,  I  promised  the 
Lord  that  if  He'd  show  me  a  way  to  do  that,  I  wouldn't 
ask  anything  for  myself.  It  seems  as  if  He'd  took  me 
at  my  word,  and  I'm  not  going  to  back  down,  whatever 
the  consequences.  If  there's  any  sin  in  what  we're 
doing,  Horace,  I'll  take  it  all  on  myself.  If  I  knew  it 
meant  eternal  punishment,  I'd  do  it — for  their  sakes." 

His  face  grew  pale  and  he  leaned  back  in  the  rocking- 
chair,  with  a  glance  at  the  open  door  between  the  rooms. 
Horace  rose  and  shut  it  softly,  and  returning,  placed 
his  hand  on  his  brother's  forehead.  It  was  wet  with 
heavy  drops  of  sweat. 

"  Don't  be  troubled,  Seth,"  he  said,  soothingly,  "  It 
can't  be  wicked  to  raise  and  sell  a  colt — and  that's  all 
you're  going  to  do.  If  I  choose  to  arrange  a  race  and 
win  or  lose  a  few  dollars  on  the  result,  that's  my  affair. 
It  won't  be  the  first  time  I've  done  it,  either,  and  prob- 
ably will  not  be  the  last.  You  just  leave  the  matter  to 
me  and  don't  worry.  I  wouldn't  have  your  name 
mixed  up  with  such  a  thing — though  I  don't  think 
there's  any  harm  in  it — any  sooner  than  you  ;  but  you 
know  /  can't  be  hurt,  nohow." 

The  sick  man  smiled.  i, 

"You  are  very  good,  Horace." 

"  No  ;  I'm  just  paying  off  some  old  debts." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  was  too  harsh  with  you  sometimes, 
Horace — when  we  were  both  younger." 

"  That's  just  where  you're  mistaken.  If  I  ever  do 
take  a  turn  for  the  better,  it'll   be   because  of  your 


46  A  So7i  of  Old  Harry. 

example,"  said  the  younger  brother,  with  some  show  of 
feeling. 

The  elder  raised  his  right  hand  feebly,  the  younger 
clasped  it  and  turned  away  his  head.  After  a  little 
time  he  withdrew  his  hand  and  went  out  of  the  room 
wiping  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER   III. 


THE    KING    OF    THE    CORNERS. 


Ortonville  was  the  name  assumed  by  the  little  group 
of  houses  on  the  State  road  a  mile  from  the  dwelling  of 
Seth  Goodwin.  Why  it  was  called  Ortonville,  or  why 
a  ville  of  any  sort  should  have  been  located  at  that 
point,  nobody  knew.  It  was  not  even  a  cross-roads, 
since  the  township  roads  which  crossed  the  great  high- 
way, did  so,  one  to  the  northward  and  the  other  to  the 
southward  of  the  little  village.  Indeed,  Ortonville  had 
no  legal  status,  boundaries  or  existence.  It  was  located 
in  Greenfield  township  ;  and  sometimes  arrogated  to 
itself  the  name  of  West  Greenfield  ;  but  the  assumption 
was  not  regarded  with  approval  by  the  inhabitants  of 
other  sections  of  the  green  parallelogram  to  which 
the  name  legally  pertained.  A  score  or  so  of  houses,  a 
store,  two  rival  blacksmith's  shops,  a  tavern,  a  grist- 
mill, a  wagon-shop,  a  carding-mill,  two  churches  and  a 
select  school  may  be  said  to  have  constituted  about  all 
there  was  of  the  pretentiously  named  little  village. 
Small  as  it  was,  it  was  made  more  insignificant  by  being 
divided  into  two  parts  by  a  sharp  gorge  down  which 
flowed  a  little  stream,  whose  pent-up   water  lazily  and 


"  The  King  of  the   Coj'uers!'  47 

reluctantly  turned  the  mill  wheels.  The  inn  and  one  of 
the  stores  stood  on  one  side  of  the  gorge  ;  the  two 
churches,  the  school-house  and  several  of  the  most  pre- 
tentious residences  on  the  other. 

The  magnate  of  the  village  from  the  first  was  Mar- 
shall Kincaid,  who  owned  the  store,  the  hotel,  the  livery- 
stable  upon  the  south  side,  and  was  the  richest  man  in 
all  that  region.  The  store  and  the  inn  were  under 
one  roof  and  had  a  common  sign — 


KINCAID'S. 


For  a  time  the  village  was  called  '*  Kincaid's"  also  ;  but 
the  people,  especially  upon  the  north  bank  of  the 
stream,  rebelled  at  this  assumption,  and  procured  the 
post-office  to  be  named  Ortonville.  This  institution 
was  also,  after  a  bitter  contest,  located  in  a  rival  store 
on  the  north  side,  which  the  owner  of  Kincaid's  chose 
to  consider  as  arrogating  some  aristocratic  quality, 
because  of  the  possession  of  the  post-office,  churches 
and  the  select  school. 

Hard-headed,  heavy-fisted  and  sharp-tongued  was 
this  magnate  of  Ortonville.  The  "  best  people  "  spoke 
slightingly  of  him.  He  retorted  by  calling  the  village, 
north  of  the  ravine.  Skunk  Hollow.  Coarse  and  demo- 
cratic in  manner,  he  was  strictly  honest  according  to  his 
own  standard.  What  he  promised,  that  he  did.  He 
was  not  scrupulous  or  merciful.  He  did  what  the  law 
allowed  him  to  do  ;  what  it  forbade,  he  did  not  attempt. 
In  spite  of  all  opposition,  the  tough-skinned  owner  of 
Kincaid's  remained  the  autocrat  of  the  ganglion  which 
had  grown  up  by  the  great  artery  of  trade  and  travel. 


48  A   Sou  of  Old  Harry. 

along  which  the  stage  and  the  drover  found  their  way 
towards  the  northern  and  southern  outlets  of  the  great 
East.  What  made  this  man  a  sportsman,  it  would  be 
hard  to  say,  unless  it  was  that  his  strong  nature  craved 
the  excitement  of  the  gambler's  life,  while  his  prudence 
held  him  back  from  the  gaming  table.  Certain  it  is 
that  he  prided  himself  especially  upon  his  horses,  and 
would  rather  have  held  a  mortgage  on  Horace  Good- 
win's mare  Queen  than  on  his  brother's  farm. 

It  was  early  in  May  that  Horace  rode  up  to  Kincaid's, 
watered  his  mare  at  the  great  trough  which  stood  brim- 
ming over  at  the  foot  of  the  sign-post,  hitched  her  in 
one  of  the  long  sheds  across  the  way  and  sauntered 
toward  the  store,  in  the  door  of  which  stood  the  mer- 
chant, arms  akimbo,  clad  in  coarse  white  tow- cloth 
trousers,  and  shirt,  then  the  usual  summer  wear,  the 
sleeves  of  the  latter  rolled  above  his  elbows,  and  having 
upon  his  head  what  was  known  as  a  "  chip  "  hat,  made 
of  the  braided  filament  of  the  buckeye-tree. 

"  Hello,  Hod  !"  he  exclaimed.  "  Come  in  here  ;  I 
want  to  see  you  a  minute.  Where  on  earth  have  you 
been  keepin'  yourself  all  the  spring  ?  Workin'  for  Seth  ? 
Didn't  know  he  could  afford  to  hire.  What  you  been 
doin'  ?  Sugarin'  and  plantin',  eh  ?  I've  heard  about 
your  sugar — mighty  nice  lot  they  tell  me.  Got  any  for 
sale?  Sold  it?  How  much  ?  Eight  hundred  pounds  ! 
Why  didn't  you  bring  it  to  me  ?" 

"  Well,"  answered  Horace,  indifferently,  "  we  found 
that  we  could  get  a  cent  a  pound  more  at  the  harbor 
than  you  was  offerin',  and  as  I  wanted  to  go  East  to  see 
'bout  some  matters,  we  thought  'twas  best  to  take  it 
there.  Might  just  as  well,  you  see  ;  don't  cost  any  more 
to  drive  a  loaded  team  than  an  empty  wagon." 

"  Why  didn't  you  go  East,  then  ?"  retorted  the  mer- 
chant, sharply. 


"  The  King  of  the   Corner s''  49 

"  Found  what  I  was  after  in  Sandusky." 

"  Oh,  you  did  ?    Must  have  been  important." 

"  That's  what  it  was — to  me." 

*'  Oh,  'twas  your  business,  was  it  ?  Everybody  knows 
that  when  Hod  Goodwin  has  business  on  hand,  it  must 
be  'tended  to  right  off  or  it'll  spile." 

He  turned  sideways  in  the  door  to  give  several 
loungers  in  the  store  the  benefit  of  his  rude  wit.  There 
was  an  approving  laugh,  and  one  or  two  of  them  sidled 
past  him  and  stood  upon  the  porch  the  better  to  hear  the 
wordy  encounter.  Horace  Goodwin,  in  the  phrase  of 
the  region,  was  regarded  as  "  able  to  hold  his  hand  with 
most  any  body  that  chose  to  tackle  him."  He  leaned 
quietly  against  one  of  the  posts  of  the  porch,  holding  a 
beech  switch  in  his  hand,  with  which  he  carelessly 
tapped  his  red  morocco  boot-top,  as  he  joined  in  the 
laugh  against  himself.  Horace  Goodwin  was  inclined 
to  be  what  the  good  people  of  the  region  termed  "  fop- 
pish in  his  dress."  On  the  present  occasion,  though  he 
wore  the  ordinary  homespun  of  the  country,  it  fitted  his 
supple  figure  with  a  careless  elegance,  and  the  blue  tie, 
which  confined  the  flowing  Byronic  collar  at  the  throat, 
the  high,  calf-skin  boots,  carefully  blacked,  and  having 
red  morocco  tops,  together  with  a  pair  of  brass  spurs  so 
well  polished  that  they  shone  like  gold,  gave  him  a  sus- 
piciously picturesque  appearance.  In  truth,  his  reputa- 
tion as  a  sport  and  reckless  ne'er-do-well,  was  based  quite 
as  much  on  his  good  clothes  and  good  looks  as  on  any- 
thing reprehensible  in  his  conduct.  He  had  come  to  the 
village  for  a  special  purpose,  and  had  studied  his  attire 
with  especial  reference  to  that  object,  gfiving  it  just  that 
careless  elegance  which  he  knew  was  most  irritating  to 
the  coarse  nature  of  the  landlord. 

"  Well,  Squire,"  he  answered  with  a  provoking  drawl, 
"  I    don't   know  'bout   that  ;  but  even  if  it  was  sp'ilt,  I 


50  A   Son  of  Old  Harry. 

don't  think  my  business  would  smell  as  bad  as  yourn 
does  in  good  condition." 

The  hit  was  too  apparent  to  be  overlooked,  and  the 
laugh  was  on  the  magnate. 

"Never  you  mind  my  business,"  he  retorted,  angrily. 
"  I'll  take  care  of  that.  Brought  back  a  load  from  Van 
Wyck,  didn't  you  ?" 

"  B'lieve  we  did." 

"  Trust  him  ?" 

"  Wasn't  asked  to." 

"  Owed  him,  I  s'pose  .?" 

*'  He  paid  cash  at  the  dock — always  does,  I  hear. 
That's  how  he  get's  his  hauling  done  cheap." 

"  Oh,  'tis  !  Wal,  he'll  need  to.  I'll  show  him  what  it 
means  to  come  and  open  a  store  right  here  under  my 
nose.  In  less'n  a  year,  the  sheriff'll  be  auctionin'  off  his 
goods  if  I  have  to  sell  mine  at  less'n  cost." 

"  Ortonville  '11  be  a  cheap  place  to  buy  goods,  for  a 
while,  then  !" 

*'  Kincaid's  '11  be  the  cheap  place,  and  that's  where  the 
goods  '11  be  brought,  too." 

"  They  say  Day  &  Miller  is  backin'  Van  "Wyck." 

"  Don't  care  who's  a-backin'  him,  I'll  break  him  down 
or  bu'st  up  myself.     I've  made  up  my  mind  to  that." 

"  That's  what  Wyck  says  he  likes  to  see  you  doing. 
He  says  he  keeps  run  of  your  prices,  and  sends  all  of 
his  best  customers  here  for  big  bargains.  He  furnishes 
them  the  cash  to  buy  with,  you  see,  and  takes  their 
truck  at  a  fair  price.  He  says  it's  cheaper  to  have  you 
bring  on  his  goods  than  haul  them  himself." 

A  roar  went  up  at  this  sally,  and  the  merchant,  will- 
ing to  conceal  his  vexation,  joined  in  it. 

"  You're  too  sharp  for  me  this  mornin',  Hod.  I  give 
up.     Got  any  more  of  that  fine  sugar  ?     They  say  you 


"  The  Ki7ig  of  the  Corners^  51 

Vermont  folks  beat  the  world  at  b'ilin'  sap.  What  do 
you  suppose  makes  the  difference  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  unless  it's  because  we  use  more  water." 

"  More  water  ?  What  has  that  to  do  with  it  ?  What's 
the  use  of  mixin'  water  with  the  sap,  when  you  have  to 
bile  out  what's  in  it  ?"  asked  one  of  the  loungers. 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  waterin'  the  sap,"  answered 
Horace,  dryly.  "  I  meant  washin'  the  kettles  and  the 
troughs  and  things  of  that  sort." 

"  Hello,  Hank !"  said  Kincaid,  giving  the  one  who 
had  spoken  a  whack  upon  the  back.  "  Who's  hit,  now  ? 
They  say  you're  so  'fraid  of  wastin'  water  that  you  don't 
wash  your  hands  above  once  a  month." 

"  I'd  wash  'em  oftener  if  I  had  'em  in  as  many  dirty 
things  as  you  handle,"  retorted  the  farmer,  desperately. 

"  Wal,  never  mind,"  said  the  merchant,  relieved  by 
the  way  the  laugh  had  turned  on  another.  "  What  I 
want  to  know.  Hod,  is  whether  you've  got  any  more  of 
that  sugar.  I  s'pose  I'll  have  to  have  a  little,  if  I  pay 
twice  what  it's  worth.  My  wife's  been  at  me  'bout  get- 
tin'  some  for  a  month.  She  don't  like  muscovado.  Now 
I  do.    'Tain't  quite  so  white,  but  it's  sweeter  an*  richer." 

"  Flavored  with  bits  of  nigger  now  and  then,  too. 
That's  what  makes  it  suit  your  taste,  I  s'pose,"  said 
Hank,  willing  to  repay  his  tormentor  for  the  thrust  he 
had  received. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.  I  don't  reckon  there  is 
anything  in  that  story,  I  'low  niggers  cost  too  much  to 
be  used  to  flavor  molasses  with.  But  whatever  'tis,  I 
like  muscovado.  I  think  a  green-apple  pie,  sweetened 
with  muscovado,  with  white  clover  honey  on  top  of  it, 
is  just  about  as  good  eatin'  as  a  man  ever  gets.  But  my 
wife  spleens  against  it,  and  is  especially  fond  of  Good- 
win's sugar,  'cause  she  says  she  knows  it's  clean.  I  hope 
you  saved  some  for  us,  Hod  ?" 


52  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  Seth's  folks  would  think  they 
could  spare  any  more  or  not.  We  made  about  twelve 
hundred  pounds." 

"So  I  heard,"  remarked  the  merchant.  "Mighty 
good  bush,  that." 

"  'Bout  the  best  in  the  country,  and  well-equipped, 
too.  Seven  hundred  buckets  and  troughs  ;  two  forty- 
barrel  store-troughs,  and  a  sugar-house  thirty  feet  by 
seventy,  as  light  and  dry  as  a  parlor,  and  a  sixty-foot 
arch  for  boiling.     It's  hard  to  beat." 

"  Jest  so,"  said  the  magnate,  with  a  shrewd  twinkle  in 
his  eyes. 

"  But  you  see.  Marsh,  the  last  run  was  after  the  buds 
had  started,  and  wasn't  quite  as  white  as  what  was 
'  done  off '  before  ;  a  little  sticky,  too,  as  if  it  wasn't 
quite  dry." 

"Always  will  be  that  way  after  the  buds  start," 
remarked  the  farmer  called  Hank. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Horace,  "  and  I  don't  s'pose  Seth's 
folks  would  like  to  sell  that." 

"  Hurt  his  reputation,  eh  ?" 

"  Seth's  mighty  particular  'bout  such  things,  you  know. 
Besides,  it  takes  a  good  deal  of  sweetening  for  the  fam- 
ily, 'specially  when  I'm  there  ;  then  they're  expecting  a 
sight  of  company  this  year,  and  Seth  being  sick — " 

"  How  is  he  now  ?" 

"  So's  to  be  about  the  house,  but  don't  seem  to  have 
no  strength — no  more'n  a  baby,  hardly.  Just  gives  out 
if  he  lifts  his  hands,  let  alone  doing  any  work." 

"  I  hear  he's  mighty  happy,  though  ?" 

It  was  Hank  who  asked  the  question,  and  his  face  had 
assumed  a  sudden  seriousness. 

"  Perfectly." 

"  So  the  Elder  told  me.  I  tell  you,  gentlemen,  reli- 
gion pays  at  such  times,"  said  the  grimy-handed  farmer, 


"  The  King  of  the  Corners!^  53 

turning  toward  the  others  with  an  unconscious  assump- 
tion of  superiority. 

"  So  I  s'pose.  When  I  git  that  way,  I'll  think  about 
it,"  said  Kincaid,  lightly. 

"  You'd  better  begin  pretty  soon,  Marsh.  You'll  need 
all  the  time  you're  likely  to  have,  if  half  they  tell  about 
you  is  true,"  retorted  Hank,  shrugging  his  shoulders 
and  winking  at  the  others. 

"  How  much  was  there  of  that  last  run  ?"  asked 
Kincaid,  ignoring  the  rough  exhortation. 

"  About  eighty  or  a  hundred  pounds." 

"  What  you  goin'  to  do  with  the  rest  ?" 

"  Seth  thought  we'd  better  keep  it.  They  might  need 
it,  you  know." 

"  Need  four  hundred  pounds  of  sugar  !  More'n  I  use 
in  the  tavern !" 

"  Perhaps  the  house'd  be  more  popular  if  you  used 
more,"  retorted  Hank. 

"  No  doubt  it  takes  a  good  deal  of  that  to  sweeten 
Seth's  religion,"  sneered  the  merchant.  "  Well,  he  can 
afford  it — he's  mor'gaged.  By  the  way,  when's  he  goin' 
to  pay  that  thousand  dollars  I've  beeii  waitin'  for  since 
January  ?" 

"  I  don't  know — not  just  now,  I  s'pose,"  answered 
Horace  ;  **  but  you  needn't  be  at  all  afraid,  Marshall ; 
he'll  get  it  some  time,  and  he  might  as  well  be  paying 
you  interest  as  any  one.  We've  got  in  a  good  crop,  and 
I'm  going  to  help  him  this  year.  He's  had  bad  luck,  you 
know,  but  we're  going  into  a  little  matter  that  promises 
mighty  well,  we  think." 

"  Horses  ?"  asked  Kincaid,  sharply. 

"Well,  a  little.  I  went  on  East  last  fall  looking  up 
this  trotting  business,  that's  come  up  so  hot  all  at  once. 
I've  had  a  sulky  built  and  am  going  to  train  the  Queen 
for  some  of  the  fall  races." 


54  A  So7i  of  Old  Harry. 

"  'Tain't  no  good,"  said  the  other,  positively  ;  "  they'll 
beat  ye  out  of  yer  eye-teeth.  You  ain't  no  match  fer 
them  fellers  down  East,  Hod  Goodwin." 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered,  Horace,  complacently. 
"  I  hain't  ever  got  let  in  very  bad  on  a  horse  yet,  and  I 
thought  while  we  were  at  it,Seth  and  I  might  as  well  pick 
up  a  drove  and  take  them  on  at  the  same  time.  So  if  one 
speculation  flashed  in  the  pan  the  other  might  amount 
to  something." 

**  That  ain't  a  bad  idee.  It'll  take  money,  though,  to 
buy  horses  cheap,  an'  they  don'  either  on  ye  seem  to 
have  any  too  gfreat  a  supply  of  that,"  sneered  the  mer- 
chant. "  I  don't  see  how  y're  going  to  do  business, 
unless  you've  got  either  money  or  credit," 

"  Well,  you  see,  Seth's  wife's  brother,  back  East,  he's 
a  little  forehanded,  and  he's  got  a  mighty  good  idea  of 
Seth's  judgment  and  my  luck  ;  so  he's  going  to  furnish  a 
little  money  for  a  starter,  'Twas  him  I  went  to  San- 
dusky to  meet," 

"Jest  so;  wal,  'tain't  half  a  bad  idea,"  repeated 
Kincaid.  "  Ef  you'd  been  as  stiddy  as  Seth,  you'd  been 
a  rich  man  long  ago  with  your  luck — judgment,  I'd  call  it 
— but  Seth'll  spile  it  ;  see  if  he  don't.  He's  too  pious  to 
make  a  good  hoss-trader." 

*'  I  s'pose  I'll  have  to  do  the  buying,"  said  Horace. 

'*  You'll  have  to  do  the  sellin',  too,  if  there's  any  money 
made,"  answered  Kincaid. 

"  S'pose  I  shall,"  was  the  reply, 

"  Then  what  in  thunder's  Seth  going  to  do  ?" 

."  Look  after  me  and  keep  me  straight,  I  guess," 

"  So  you're  goin'  to  turn  pious,  too,"  sneered  the 
magnate  of  the  double-headed  village, 

"  Well,  I  thought  I'd  see  if  I  couldn't  turn  my  expe- 
rience to  some  account,  and  help  Seth  along  at  the  same 
time." 


.A  J 


"  The  King-  of  the    Corners."  55 

"  Hod  Goodwin,"  said  the  merchant,  "  you're  jest  as 
big  a  fool  as  ever,  Ef  you'd  done  that  ten  years  ago, 
or  even  five,  you'd  made  a  fortune,  both  on  ye  ;  but  it's 
too  late  now.  He's  got  no  credit,  and  I'm  goin'  to 
harvest  that  crop  you  have  been  plantin'  for  him, 
unless — "  here  he  looked  around  and  winked  at  the 
loiterers — "unless  he  takes  that  brother-in-law's  money 
and  pays  off  my  mortgage.  That  would  be  a  good 
plan,  now." 

"  Seth  would  starve,  first,"  exclaimed  the  brother, 
angrily. 

"  B'lieve  he  would,"  rejoined  Kincaid  ;  "  but  it's  his 
only  way  out  of  the  box  he's  in.  I'm  goin'  to  put  the 
note  in  suit  right  away  ;  the  place'll  be  sold  in  July — 
jest  the  tightest  time  in  all  the  year  for  money — and 
he'll  have  to  get  off  before  the  crop's  ripe.  I'm  goin' 
to  have  the  money  or  the  place,  and,  if  the  com  does 
well,  I'd  a  leetle  rather  have  the  place  than  the 
money." 

"  There  ain't  no  doubt  of  that,"  answered  Horace ; 
"  but  I'll  bet  something  you  don't  get  it." 

"  How's  he  goin'  to  help  it  ?" 

"  I  can't  say  just  now." 

"  You  can't  make  nothin'  on  yer  hoss  spec  afore  fall 
nohow  ?" 

"  I  s'pose  not." 

"  Wal,  then,  what's  to  hinder  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  exactly  ;  I  just  feel,  though,  as  if  some- 
thing or  other'd  turn  up  to  save  Seth's  place  ;  been  feel- 
in'  so  all  the  time." 

"  Bet  ye  fifty  dollars  that  I  git  the  place,"  retorted 
the  merchant,  slapping  his  brawny  palm  on  the  door- 
casing. 

"  Guess  I'll  have  to  take  you  up  on  that.  Squire." 

"All  right,"  said  Kincaid,  going  behind  the  counter 


56  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

and  opening  his  money-drawer,  with  a  flourish  ;  "  put 
up  yer  available." 

"  It's  about  all  I've  got,"  answered  Horace,  taking  out 
his  pocket-book,  "and  it's  a  good  while  to  wait  for 
returns  ;  but  one  has  to  back  his  kin,  you  know.  What 
time  did  you  say  ?" 

"  Wal— first  of  October." 

"All  right." 

Horace  counted  out  the  money,  and  the  two  went 
across  the  street  to  put  the  stakes  in  the  hands  of  a 
third  party.  They  chose  a  lawyer,  and  when  the 
deposit  had  been  made,  the  terms  being  carefully 
written  out  and  signed  by  the  parties,  the  merchant 
said  : 

"Now,  Kendall,  you  jest  push  that  suit  ag'in'  Setli 
Goodwin,  and  the  money  in  that  paper  is  yer  fee.  I'm 
much  obleeged  to  you.  Hod,  for  helpin'  me  pay  a  law- 
yer to  eject  yer  brother." 

This  incident  put  the  money-lender  in  good  humor, 
and  on  their  return  to  the  store  he  began  to  banter  the 
other  to  make  a  race  between  his  mare  Queen  and  a 
noted  gray  horse  which  the  merchant  had  bought  the 
summer  before.  He  was  known  as  Gray  Eagle,  and 
was  said  to  have  a  long  record  of  victories  on  the 
turf.  It  was  rumored  that  Kincaid  had  bought  him 
especially  to  dispossess  the  Queen  from  her  supremacy, 
his  previous  attempts  in  that  direction  having  been 
rather  costly  failures.  This  was  exactly  what  Horace 
Goodwin  had  come  to  the  village  to  effect,  but  he  was 
a  keen  judge  of  men  and  knew  that  the  surest  way 
to  effect  his  purpose  was  to  display  entire  indiffer- 
ence. So  he  answered  nonchalantly  enough  to  the 
eager  banter  : 

"  Can't  do  it,  Squire.  I'm  going  to  train  her  to  trot ; 
made  up  my  mind  to  that.     Besides,  it  wouldn't  be  any 


"  The  King  of  the   Corners.^''  57 

credit  to  her  to  beat  that  lop-eared  old  nag  of  yours. 
You  got  awfully  taken  in  when  you  paid  twenty-five 
hundred  dollars  for  such  a  horse.  He's  seen  his  best 
days,  and  never  was  worth  anything  like  that  money." 

"  Who  told  you  I  paid  that  ?"  asked  Kincaid,  sharply. 

"  Why,  I  went  down  to  Kentucky  just  to  find  out  about 
him  ;  and  I  found  out  all  I  wanted  to  know,  too." 

"  We  did  call  it  twenty-five  hundred,"  admitted  the 
other,  "  but  part  of  it  was  trade.  Anyhow,  he  can  run  a 
mile  quicker'n  any  horse  in  Ohio.  Come,  now,  I  dare 
you  to  make  a  race  with  him  and  your  mare,  and  bet 
one  horse  against  the  other." 

"  Oh,  I  won't  run  the  mare  ;  that's  settled.  I  wouldn't 
run  her  against  him,  anyhow  ;  it  would  spoil  her  repu- 
tation. But  I'll  tell  you  what  I  will  do.  I  ain't  the  man 
to  spoil  sport  or  take  a  banter.  I'll  pick  up  a  horse 
right  out  of  the  pasture  that  never  run  a  race  in  his  life, 
and  just  give  me  a  few  days  to  show  him  how  to  pick 
up  two  feet  at  a  time,  and  if  he  don't  beat  your  old  Gray 
Eagle  the  best  two  out  of  three,  mile-heats,  you  may 
tate  the  Queen  ;  and,  if  he  does,  you  shall  give  me  as 
much  for  him  as  you  agreed  to  pay  for  the  Eagle." 

The  loiterers  highly  applauded  this  challenge,  all  the 
more,  because  they  had  no  idea  that  it  would  ever  pass 
beyond  the  realm  of  braggadocio.  Fond  as  the  people 
were  of  horse-racing  at  that  time,  large  bets  were 
exceedingly  rare.  The  merchant,  knowing  how  attached 
Horace  Goodwin  was  to  his  pet  mare,  thought  this 
merely  a  bluff,  and  met  it  with  one  as  bold. 

"  Done  !"  said  he  emphatically.  "  A  word's  enough 
— between  gentlemen — "  he  added,  scornfully.  "  Come 
right  over  to  Squire  Kendall's  again  and  have  the  writ- 
in's  draw'd  up  at  once.  There  ain't  no  mortgage  on  the 
mare,  I  s'pose  ?" 


58  A  So7i  of  Old  Harry, 

"  Nothing  on  her  heavier'n  a  saddle,"  answered  Good- 
win. 

"  I  s'pose  my  note  '11  be  security  enough  for  the 
money." 

"  The  money  '11  do  well  enough  for  me,  Squire,  or 
anything  that'll  bring  money,  but  not  any  note  of  yours, 
if  you  please." 

"  Do  you  think  I'd  go  back  on  my  word  ?" 

" '  Fast  bind,  fast  find,'  Mr.  Kincaid.  That's  your 
motto,  I  believe.  If  I  put  up  a  bill  of  sale  of  the  mare, 
you've  got  to  put  up  the  money  or  the  money's  worth." 

Again  the  sentiment  of  the  crowd  was  unmistakably 
in  Goodwin's  favor.  After  some  haggling,  it  was  agreed 
that  the  race  should  be  run  on  Tuesday,  the  third  day 
of  July,  if  the  weather  was  fair  and  the  track  dry — if 
not,  on  the  next  day — it  being  admitted  by  both  that  it 
would  not  do  to  make  a  match  over  a  hard  clay  track 
when  it  was  wet  with  a  recent  shower.  The  landlord 
was  to  deposit  two  thousand  dollars — good  and  lawful 
money — to  abide  the  issue,  ten  days  before  the  race,  and 
in  case  of  failure  to  do  so,  to  forfeit  the  five  hundfed 
now  deposited,  and  in  that  case  the  bill  of  sale  of  the 
Queen  was  to  be  returned  to  her  owner.  Proof  satis- 
factory to  the  stakeholder,  that  the  unknown  horse  had 
been  reared  in  that  or  an  adjoining  county,  and  had 
never  run  for  any  stake,  was  to  be  made  at  the  time  set 
for  the  race,  which  was  to  be  three  heats  along  the 
**  measured  mile,"  Goodwin  having  the  choice  as  to 
which  end  of  the  course  the  track  should  begin. 

An  hour  afterward,  when  Horace  Goodwin  dashed 
past  the  window  at  which  his  brother  sat,  and  up  the 
lane  to  the  low,  rambling  barn  in  the  rear,  the  mare  was 
unusually  blown  and  he  had  chewed  the  beech  switch 
until  only  a  fragment  of  it  remained.  He  felt  that  he 
had  made  a  desperate  venture,  on  which  not  only  his 


"  The  King  of  the  Corners."  59 

own  favorite  but  his  brother's  good  name  were  staked, 
with  the  chances  by  no  means  certain  in  his  favor.  Yet 
when  he  came  to  the  house  a  few  minutes  after,  his 
countenance  was  as  composed  as  if  he  had  never 
dreamed  that  failure  was  a  possibility. 

"  There  is  no  betting  about  it,  Horace  ?"  Seth  Good- 
win asked,  when  he  was  told  that  the  colt  was  to  run 
with  the  Gray  Eagle. 

*'  If  he  beats  Kincaid's  horse,"  answered  Horace, 
evasively,  "you  can  have  twenty-five  hundred  for  the 
colt ;  that  is  all." 

"  And  if  he  does  not  ?" 

"  You  will  still  have  the  colt." 

Horace  did  not  inform  him  that  his  own  highly- 
prized  mare  would  be  the  forfeit  for  the  colt's  insuffi- 
ciency. The  answer  satisfied  the  elder  brother.  He 
was  a  shrewd  and  thoughtful  man,  but  he  knew  little 
about  racing,  and  did  not  trouble  himself  to  guess  that 
there  must  be  another  side  of  the  wager.  Horace  had 
made  it  one  of  the  conditions  of  the  match  that  its  terms 
should  be  kept  secret,  so  that  no  whisper  of  them  came 
to  the  elder  brother's  ears. 

"  Very  well,"  he  responded  after  d  moment's  silence  ; 
"  if  there  is  no  betting  about  it,  I  have  no  objection.  I 
think  the  colt  will  give  a  good  account  of  himself.  Who 
is  going  to  ride  him  ?" 

The  brother  glanced  at  Hubert,  who  stood  by, 
eagerly  drinking  in  every  word  of  the  conversation. 

"  Do  you  think  it  safe  ?"  asked  the  father,  in  an 
anxious  tone. 

"  The  colt  will  do  more  for  him  than  for  anj^  one  else, 
and  you  remember  what  the  English  turfmen  say : 
*  Ounces  at  the  start  mean  guineas  at  the  finish.'  " 

"  Well,  I  suppose  that  is  true,"  Seth  Goodwin  replied. 

A  few  days    afterward,   Horace    Goodwin  and  his 


6o  A  Son  of  Old  Hai-ry. 

nephew,  with  the  Queen  and  the  colt  Pompey,  suddenly 
disappeared  from  the  neighborhood.  It  was  generally 
reported  that  they  had  gone  to  find  a  horse  to  match 
the  Gray  Eagle.  As  the  days  went  by  and  they  did 
not  return,  there  was  a  good  deal  of  curiosity  expressed 
as  to  their  whereabouts. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

SOLITUDE    THE    NURSE    OF    POWER. 

It  was  a  curious  training-stable  that  Horace  Goodwin 
chose  for  the  colt  on  whose  performance  he  had  staked 
so  much.  The  Queen  represented  the  sum  total  of  his 
accumulations,  and  he  had  no  intention  of  losing  her  by 
neglect  of  any  precaution.  At  a  time  when  most 
young  men  of  enterprise  and  respectability  were  land- 
owners at  twenty-five,  Horace  Goodwin  was  approach- 
ing thirty  without  having  become  master  of  an  acre. 
Patrimony  he  had  none.  His  father,  from  whom  he 
inherited  only  a  happy-go-lucky  temperament,  had  not 
only  squandered  the  little  inheritance  he  received,  but 
had  shown  such  utter  lack  of  capacity,  that  the  thrifty 
neighbors  counted  his  death  a  blessing  to  his  wife,  who, 
aided  by  a  remnant  of  her  dowry,  bravely  undertook 
the  support  and  education  of  her  two  sons.  Seth,  the 
elder  by  several  years,  she  had  consecrated  with  many 
prayers,  to  the  work  of  the  ministry,  which  was  the 
destiny  most  desired  by  every  pious  mother  of  that  day 
for  her  favorite  child.  Before  his  preparation  for  this 
exalted  station  was  fairly  begun,  however,  the  duty  of 
maintaining  the    family  devolved  on  him  ;    and  the 


Solitude  the  Nurse  of  Power.  6i 

younger  had  hardly  reached  the  years  of  self-support 
when  their  mother  passed  away,  leaving  him  to  the 
guardianship  of  his  elder  brother. 

The  western  fever  had  long  possessed  Seth  Goodwin. 
The  family  once  prominent  and  prosperous  had  "  kind 
of  run  out,"  the  neighbors  said,  as  so  many  New  Eng- 
land families  do,  if  they  stick  too  close  to  the  ancestral 
ax^res.  People  pityingly  compared  their  present  with 
their  past  estate,  and  Seth  Goodwin  was  not  the  man 
to  endure  pity.  If  he  inherited  nothing  but  pride  from 
the  past,  he  had  enough  of  that  and  to  spare — the  real 
blue-blooded,  Plymouth-Rock-and-Faneuil-Hall  pride 
in  the  essential  superiority  of  all  things  Eastern,  which 
was  not  so  comical  in  its  absurdity  then  as  it  has  since 
become.  Upon  their  mother's  death,  therefore,  he  lost 
no  time  in  transferring  his  household  gods  to  the  West. 
He  did  not  expect  to  find  an  Eldorado,  but  he  was 
ready  to  battle  with  whatever  came  in  his  way  to  com- 
petence, and  was  especially  anxious  to  get  away  from 
all  familiar  knowledge  of  the  Goodwin  history  and 
attributes.  He  shrank  from  exposing  his  wife  and 
their  baby  boy  to  the  privations  of  pioneer  life,  and  so, 
with  the  usual  short-sightedness  of  the  over-cautious, 
pitched  his  tent  in  the  middle  West,  where  there  was 
less  of  comfort  and  no  more  of  opportunity  than  in  the 
region  from  which  they  came. 

He  provided  for  his  brother's  sustenance  and  educa- 
tion, so  far  as  the  restless  character  of  the  young  man 
would  permit,  and  when  he  came  of  age,  offered  him  the 
choice  of  a  moiety  of  the  little  store  which  constituted 
their  inheritance,  undiminished  by  any  charge  for  nur- 
ture, or  an  equal  share  in  the  land  he  had  bought,  if  the 
younger  brother  would  "  settle  down  "  and  work  with 
him  until  it  was  paid  for.  This  offer  was  a  very  liberal 
one,  so  other  people  thought,  but  Horace  unhesitatingly 


62  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

chose  the  bit  of  money  rather  than  the  half -cleared 
acres,  and  received  it  with  some  unsolicited  advice, 
which  as  usual  in  such  cases,  he  proceeded  promptly  to 
disregard.  This  conduct  grieved  the  elder  brother, 
but  in  no  way  disturbed  the  pleasant  relations  that 
existed  between  them.  "  The  Goodwins  aren't  much 
alike,  but  they  stick  to  each  other,"  was  the  general 
verdict  upon  the  brothers. 

Horace's  money  very  soon  burned  a  hole  in  his  pocket, 
through  which  his  earnings  as  well  as  his  inheritance 
dribbled  away.  A  gun  and  a  violin  were  presently  the 
sum  total  of  his  possessions.  Afterward  he  had  pur- 
chased the  mare,  which  was  the  extent  of  his  acquisi- 
tions. His  brother's  house  was  still  his  home,  where 
he  never  lacked  a  welcome  for  himself  or  a  stall  for  his 
favorite.  He  did  not  want  ability  or  industry,  though 
the  latter  was  of  a  fitful  character  and  the  former  not 
always  directed  to  the  most  creditable  ends.  While  few 
excelled  him  in  the  harvest-field,  he  was  admittedly 
unrivaled  as  a  violinist,  an  accomplishment  then  deemed 
almost  as  discreditable  as  the  skill  for  which  he  was 
also  noted  in  manipulating  those  painted  bits  of  paste- 
board whose  mysterious  charm  was  then  regarded  as  a 
device  of  the  arch-enemy  of  mankind  for  the  taking  of 
unwary  souls.  Versatile,  kindly,  jovial,  he  was  stable 
only  in  the  pursuit  of  the  pleasures  he  affected,  and 
devotion  to  the  mare,  with  which  no  temptation  could 
induce  him  to  part.  This  was  a  peculiarly  unfortunate 
combination  of  good  and  bad  qualities  for  a  time  when 
life  was  especially  earnest  and  real  to  those  who  were 
waging  a  hard  conflict  with  nature,  with  none  of  the 
excitement  of  the  pioneer  and  few  of  the  comforts  of 
civilization. 

He  had  led  a  roving,  though  it  could  hardly  be  called 
an  idle  life,  w^hich  was  not  without  advantage  in  an 


Solitude  the  Nurse  of  Power.  6 


o 


added  knowledge  of  the  world  and  its  ways.  He  had  been 
East  in  the  employ  of  drovers,  once  or  twice,  an  experi- 
ence of  no  little  value  in  those  days  when  it  took  two  or 
three  months  to  get  the  stock  of  the  West  to  New  York 
"on  the  hoof."  Afterward,  because  of  his  skill  as  a 
purchaser  and  excellent  judgment  as  to  the  value  of 
stock,  he  had  been  employed  to  buy  horses  and  cattle 
for  a  firm  doing  business  at  one  of  the  lake  ports.  He 
was  generally  in  receipt  of  good  wages,  but  none  of  his 
earnings  stuck  to  his  fingers,  except  the  Queen.  He 
had  repeatedly  offered  to  let  his  brother  have  a  part  of 
his  wages  to  assist  him  in  paying  off  his  indebtedness  ; 
but  Seth  Goodwin  was  the  very  incarnation  of  that 
pride  which  would  rather  endure  hardship  than  be 
indebted  to  another's  favor,  more  especially  one  whom 
he  had  so  often  lectured  for  extravagance. 

Horace  Goodwin  was,  therefore,  one  of  the  best- 
dressed,  poorest,  most  contented,  best-liked  and  least 
esteemed  men  in  that  region  of  the  country.  It  was 
said  that  he  knew  most  of  the  men  and  women  and 
every  one  of  the  horses  in  the  five  counties  adjoining 
that  in  which  he  lived.  Because  of  this,  the  owner  of 
Gray  Eagle,  despite  his  confidence  in  the  prowess  of  his 
steed,  was  somewhat  uneasy  about  the  wager  he  had 
made.  Twenty-five  hundred  dollars  was  a  big  price  to 
pay  for  a  horse,  even  though  by  some  scratch  of  luck 
he  might  be  able  to  defeat  the  nag  of  which  he  had 
boasted  so  confidentially.  The  truth  was  that  Marshall 
Kincaid  felt  that  he  had  been  overmatched  in  the  pur- 
chase of  Gray  Eagle,  and  would  have  been  glad  to  get 
him  off  his  hands  at  a  greatly  reduced  figure.  He  had 
been  a  very  good  horse,  but  the  winter  had  revealed 
certain  infirmities  which  caused  his  new  owner  to  regard 
him  with  a  feeling  not  very  far  removed  from  nausea. 
He  had  bought  him  without  warranty,  however,  and  the 


64  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

only  chance  he  had  to  make  himself  whole  was  by 
wagers  on  his  performance.  It  was  possible  that 
another  horse  of  similar  character  might  win  by  dint 
of  superior  management.  The  chagrin  of  such  a  possi- 
bility troubled  the  magnate  of  the  Comers  even  more 
than  the  prospect  of  loss. 

The  fact  that  the  Queen  was  excluded  by  the  terms 
of  the  race  gave  him  no  little  comfort.  He  knew  it  was 
not  an  easy  thing  to  find  a  raw  horse  which  had  never 
run  a  race  able  to  defeat  even  a  second-rate  veteran  of 
the  turf  under  good  management.  The  latter  he  made 
sure  of  by  sending  to  Kentucky  for  the  colored  jockey 
who  had  ridden  the  Gray  Eagle  in  his  best  races.  As 
the  jockey  was  a  slave,  he  was  obliged  to  give  security 
to  the  master  for  the  negro's  safe  return  to  bondage. 

Despite  all  these  precautions,  however,  he  did  not 
feel  exactly  safe.  Horace  Goodwin  was  too  good  a 
horseman  and  too  fond  of  his  mare  to  stake  her  upon  a 
mere  chance  of  success.  Could  it  be  that  he  had  dis- 
covered some  phenomenally  good  horse  whose  merits 
no  one  else  recognized  ?  Do  what  he  might,  Marshall 
Kincaid  could  not  divest  himself  of  a  fear  that  this 
might  be  the  case.  He  accordingly  sent  trusty  messen- 
gers through  each  of  the  adjoining  counties  to  make 
inquiries  in  regard  to  horses  of  the  description  indicated, 
which  Horace  Goodwin  might  perhaps  secure  for  the 
purposes  of  the  race,  and,  if  possible,  to  discover  also 
where  Horace  was  hidden.  The  result  of  these  inqui- 
ries was  a  conviction  that  young  Goodwin  would  try  to 
palm  off,  on  the  day  of  the  race,  a  horse  which  did  not 
comply  with  the  conditions.  As  this  would  result  in  a 
forfeiture  of  the  stakes,  if  the  deception  were  exposed 
in  time,  he  determined  to  be  prepared  for  it  by  securing 
the  attendance  of  a  large  number  of  men  well  acquainted 
with  the  people  and  horses  of  the  adjacent  counties. 


Solitude  the  Nurse  of  Power.  65 

He  did  not  give  a  thought  to  the  colt  which  had  grown 
up  on  the  farm  so  quietly  as  never  to  have  attracted 
the  attention  even  of  the  owner's  "  horsey  "  brother. 

In  the  meantime,  by  a  roundabout  way,  Horace  and 
his  nephew  reached  the  training-stable  which  had  been 
decided  upon  in  case  a  match  was  made,  long  before.  It 
was  not  a  very  luxurious  affair ;  but  for  secrecy, 
and  adaptation  to  the  purpose  intended,  a  better  one 
could  hardly  be  imagined.  It  was  Seth  Goodwin's 
sugar -house,  the  camp  at  which  the  sap  from  his 
sugar-bUvSh  was  boiled  into  syinip.  It  was  a  log-cabin, 
seventy  feet  long,  with  a  store-trough  hollowed  from  a 
giant  cucumber-tree  stretching  along  one  side,  and  a 
great  stone  arch,  in  which  were  set  a  half-dozen  large 
iron  cauldrons  on  the  other.  Ordinarily  the  cabin  was 
used  during  the  summer  to  store  the  vessels  in  which 
the  sap  was  caught,  but  this  year  these  had  been  piled 
up  outside  of  it,  and  a  snug  partition  had  been  put 
across  it,  giving  the  opportunity  for  two  roomy  but 
secluded  stalls  beyond.  The  camp  was  admirably 
located,  both  for  its  original  purpose  and  the  one  to 
which  it  was  now  dedicated. 

It  stood  beside  a  running  stream  in  a  narrow  valley, 
closely  shut  in  by  a  dense  growth  of  beech  and  maple. 
Hardly  twenty  steps  away,  a  cold  spring  burst  out  of  the 
sheltering  bank,  while  just  below  was  a  sandy-bottomed 
pool,  which  constituted  an  ideal  attachment  of  the  train- 
ing-stable. The  store-trough  served  as  a  manger,  and 
the  front  end  of  the  log-cabin  was  occupied  by  the 
trainer  and  the  jockey,  who  thus  literally  slept  with  the 
horse  they  were  preparing  for  the  crucial  test  of  equine 
merit.  Their  preparations  had  been  carefully  made, 
and  everything  that  might  be  needed  for  the  horses 
and  their  attendants  had  been  brought  there  at  night 
and  with  every  possible  precaution  to  secure  secrecy. 


66  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

For  a  training-ground  they  had  the  springy  wood 
roads,  cut  for  hauling  sap  to  the  camp,  which  were  per- 
fection itself  for  the  ordinary  jogging  exercise,  while  a 
few  days'  work  with  a  pair  of  steers  had  made  a  splendid 
turf -course  around  "Number  Two,"  a  twenty- acre 
pasture  which  lay  just  outside  the  verdant  wall  that 
marked  the  edge  of  the  primeval  forest,  and  was 
securely  hidden  from  the  road,  a  mile  away,  by  a  fringe 
of  second-growths  along  its  lower  side.  The  sugar- 
bush  was  part  of  an  unbroken  forest  which  stretched 
between  the  parallel  section-roads  two  miles  apart,  only 
cut  by  narrow  cross-roads  at  equal  intervals.  Sur- 
rounded by  this  dense  mass  of  giant  decidua,  there  was 
no  danger  of  discover}',  unless  by  some  chance  wan- 
derer, and  as  it  was  not  the  season  for  hunting,  this  was 
very  unlikely.  For  two  months,  this  sequestered  sugar- 
camp  was  to  be  the  training-stable  of  the  bay  colt  and 
of  the  mare,  which  was  at  the  same  time  to  be  fitted 
for  the  trotting-course,  on  which  it  was  hoped  she  might 
win  profitable  distinction. 

To  the  boy  these  were  months  of  almost  unalloyed 
happiness.  Not  only  did  its  secrecy  give  special  relish 
to  a  life  intrinsically  attractive,  but  it  was  the  first  time 
he  had  ever  been  a  day  beyond  the  touch  of  parental 
restraint,  and  the  solitude  of  the  forest  is  magical  in  its 
power  to  develop  self-reliance  and  individuality  Man- 
hood is  a  flower  which  unfolds  its  petals  most  readily 
where  only  God  and  Nature  can  scrutinize  their  form  and 
color.  There  is  no  place  where  the  boy  ripens  into  a 
man  so  swiftly  as  in  the  shadows  of  the  forest  or  the  glare 
of  the  desert.  Besides  this,  the  knowledge  that  his  father 
was  constantly  improving  in  health  because  of  the  hope 
resulting  from  his  estimate  of  the  colt's  merits,  and  the 
importance  of  the  work  in  which  they  were  engaged, 
made  the  days  of  steady  application  to  a  single  purpose 


Solitude  the  Nurse  of  Poiver.  67 

pass  radidly  away,  while  the  flashing  fire,  the  uncle's 
violin  and  the  thousand  voices  which  filled  the  verdant 
wood,  made  the  summer  nights  a  genuine  fairy -land  to 
his  fervid  fancy. 

Absorbed  in  his  surroundings,  he  hardly  noted  the 
daily  improvement  of  the  colt,  until  he  suddenly  awoke 
to  the  fact  that  the  animal  he  rode  was  quite  a  different 
beast  from  the  one  he  had  been  accustomed  to  bestride. 
That  nameless  transformation  which  comes  to  a  well- 
bred  horse  when  he  is  "  in  condition,"  had  given  a  new 
fire  and  life  to  his  favorite.  Speeded  daily  on  the 
springy  turf  of  Number  Two,  with  the  mare  whom  he 
was  usually  allowed  to  out-strip  without  too  much  effort, 
the  instinct  of  the  racer  was  stimulated,  until  the  colt 
would  have  given  up  his  life  rather  than  be  outdone. 
Then  he  was  taught  to  yield  to  his  rider's  judgm^ent, 
hanging  on  the  mare's  quarter  and  trailing  steadily 
after  her  around  the  course,  to  steal  in  with  a  nish  just 
at  the  finish,  she  being  held  back  to  make  his  victory 
more  apparent.  At  the  same  time  the  colt's  master 
received  a  training  not  less  thorough  at  the  hands  of 
the  experienced  horseman  with  whom  he  was  associated. 
From  toe-tip  to  fore-top  he  learned  the  anatomy  of  the 
horse,  while  having  the  benefit  of  practice  in  his  manage- 
ment and  care.  It  was  an  education  none  the  less  impor- 
tant, because  rare  even  among  those  who  profess  a  spe- 
cial liking  for  the  noble  animal.  The  teacher  had  found 
somewhere  the  cannon-bone  of  a  horse,  still  attached 
by  the  curiously  intricate  combination  of  bone  and  liga- 
ments of  the  fetlock  and  pastern,  to  that  amazing  system 
of  self -renewing  springs,  the  hoof.  This  he  analyzed, 
dissected  and  discoursed  upon  for  the  benefit  of  his 
young  pupil,  in  the  intervals  of  their  labor,  illustrating 
his  theories  by  examples  drawn  from  his  own  experi- 
ence, or  which  he  had  gathered  from  the  conversation 


68  A.  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

of  others.  As  a  consequence,  the  boy  developed  almost 
as  rapidly  as  the  colt,  and  when  the  period  of  seclusion 
was  over,  had  not  only  become  a  well-informed  horse- 
man, but  desired  nothing  so  much  as  the  life  of  a  jockey. 
Happening  to  mention  this  ambition  one  night,  after  a 
pleasant  day's  work,  when  his  uncle  was  quietly  smok- 
ing, as  he  reclined  on  the  pile  of  hay  which  served  them 
as  a  couch,  that  worthy  took  his  pipe  from  his  jnouth 
and  said,  sharply  : 

"  Now,  look  here,  my  boy,  none  'o  that.  Remember 
you're  Seth  Goodwin's  son.  He's  set  his  heart  and  hope 
on  you.  It  is  well  enough  for  a  man  to  come  up 
through  a  stable,  but  he  cannot  go  down  into  one  unless 
it  is  for  a  special  purpose — such  as  this — if  he  expects 
to  be  anything  in  the  world.  I  hope  to  see  you 
ride  this  race  and  possibly  one  more — if  you  win, 
that  is.  Then  you  must  give  up  all  thoughts  of  such 
things.  -  It  is  well  enough  to  know  all  aboiit  horses,  but 
it's  a  bad  notion  to  think  too  much  of  them,  especially 
for  a  Goodwin  with  a  red  spur  on  his  heel.  It  happens 
to  be  the  only  way  you  can  help  your  father  just  now  ; 
and  it's  a  real  providence  that  you  can  do  this.  I  can't 
help  thinking  about  it,  though  I  don't  believe  your 
father  half  realizes  how  marvelous  it  is.  He  thinks  the 
Lord  will  look  out  for  him  and  his,  as  a  matter  of  course. 
I'm  just  sure  his  prayers  are  going  to  be  answered,  but 
it  will  be  in  a  way  he  never  thought  of  looking  for  help 
to  come.  Everything  is  turned  around,  you  see. 
Always  before  it  has  been  the  pious,  strait-laced  Good- 
wins, who  have  helped  the  reckless  ones  ;  but  it's  just 
the  other  way  now.  If  we  hadn't  the  mark  of  the  beast 
on  us  there  wouldn't  be  much  help  for  Seth  now,  so  far 
as  I  can  see,  at  least.  I  ain't  blaming  your  father,  lad, 
nor  I  don't  mean  to  speak  lightly  of  serious  things.  I'm 
afraid  he  won't  be  able  to  do  much  for  himself' — for  a 


Solitude  the  Niti'se  of  Power.  69 

good  while,  anyway — and  it'll  be  a  great  relief  to  him 
to  have  the  place  clear  of  debt.  If  we  win,  that'll  be 
off  his  mind  ;  if  we  lose,  he  won't  be  any  worse  for  the 
way  it's  done. 

"  But  he  wouldn't  have  had  any  chance  at  all  if  his 
brother  hadn't  been  a  son  of  Old  Harry,  or  his  son  hadn't 
taken  to  horses  as  naturally  as  a  duck  to  water.  Now  I 
just  believe  that's  the  reason  the  Lord  made  us  what  we 
are — so't  we  could  help  one  that's  been  as  good  a  servant 
as  He's  likely  to  find  in  these  days.  I'm  glad  the  Lord 
has  found  a  way  to  make  me  useful,  too.  I've  been 
afraid  sometimes  that  I  wouldn't  ever  be  fit  for  anything 
decent.  I  can  make  money  enough,  but  I  don't  seem 
able  to  keep  it.  It  slips  away  while  I'm  trying  to  find  out 
how  to  hold  on  to  it ;  and  nobody  can  be  respecta- 
ble unless  he  has  more  money  than  he  has  any  use  for. 
Remember  that,  my  son.  It  don't  matter  how  good  or 
wise  a  man  may  be  ;  if  he  ain't  rich,  he's  mighty  little 
thought  of. 

"  That's  always  the  way.  There's  sure  to  be  one  Good- 
win in  every  generation  that  ain't  of  much  account — 
kind  of  sleazy,  you  know.  It  didn't  make  so  much  dif- 
ference as  long  as  there  were  two  of  them.  One  was 
sure  to  keep  up  the  name  and  make  it  respectable.  But 
you're  all  alone — the  very  last  Goodwin  there  is — and 
you've  got  to  be  steady  like  your  father,  and  not  wild 
like  me.  Of  course,  you  can't  help  being  fond  of  horses, 
and  I  think  you  ought  to  know  all  about  them,  so  that 
you  won't  be  led  away  by  any  false  notions.  Horses 
are  like  cards  ;  it's  the  man  who  knows  the  least  about 
them  that  gets  taken  in  the  worst  by  them.  But  you've 
got  something  better  to  do  than  give  your  time  to  horses. 
You've  got  to  please  your  father — do  what  he  wants  you 
to  do — and  show  the  world  Seth  Goodwin's  got  a  boy 
fit  to  bear  his  name." 


70  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

"  What  does  he  want  I  should  do,  Uncle  Horace  ?" 
asked  the  boy,  not  very  cheerfully. 

"  Well,  the  first  thing,  you  know,  he  wants  you  to  go 
to  school." 

"  Oh,  that's  easy  enough,"  said  the  lad,  brightening. 

"  Of  course,  it's  easy,"  continued  the  uncle,  approv- 
ingly. "  I  never  cared  much  about  book-learning 
myself  ;  but  your  father  would  have  made  a  great 
scholar  if  he'd  had  a  chance.  That's  why  he's  so  anxious 
to  have  you  get  a  good  education.  Do  you  know  he 
wants  to  send  you  to  college  ?" 

The  boy  shook  his  head,  wonderingly. 

"  Yes,  he  does  ;  I  don't  fancy  the  notion,  but  he  wants 
you  to  be  what  he  hadn't  a  chance  to  become.  I  don't 
know,  being  a  baby  when  pa  died,  but  I  expect  '  the 
gray  mare  was  the  better  horse  '  in  that  team.  Ma  was 
a  remarkable  woman,  and  she  made  up  her  mind  that 
Seth  should  be  a  minister — not  one  of  those  stub-toed, 
lickity-clip  fellows  that  know  about  as  much  about 
preaching  as  I  do  about  shoe-making,  but  a  real, 
thorough-bred,  college-educated  minister.  And  I 
expect,  if  she'd  lived,  she'd  have  brought  it  about  in  one 
way  or  another. 

"  He'd  have  made  a  goer,  too,"  continued  the  brother, 
with  enthusiasm,  "  if  he'd  been  rightly  handled.  But 
you  see  he  had  me  on  his  hands,  and  that  held  him  back. 
I've  always  thought  it  was  a  pity.  There  ain't  many 
that  can  outfoot  him  in  an  exhortation  now,  when  he 
gets  waked  up.  Bless  your  soul,  I've  seen  him  at  camp- 
meeting  sometimes,  when  it  would  just  make  one's  hair 
stand  up  to  see  his  eyes  flashing,  his  face  pale,  his  lips 
quivering,  and  the  words  just  tumbling  over  each  other 
trying  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  those  behind.  And 
when  it  comes  to  praying,  I've  never  seen  the  minis- 
ter of  them  all  that  could  hold  a  candle  to  him." 


Solitude  the  Nurse  of  Power.  71 

A  flush  of  pride  rose  to  the  boy's  face  as  he  listened 
to  these  words  of  praise.  He  had  more  than  once 
seen  his  father  transfigured  by  strong  emotion,  and 
felt  himself  carried  away  by  the  rush  of  his  rude  elo- 
quence, the  effect  of  which  had  been  to  make  him 
regard  the  stern,  severe  parent  with  an  admiration  akin 
to  awe. 

"  And  he  don't  preach  what  he  don't  practice,  nor 
spoil  a  story  for  relation's  sake,  either,"  continued  the 
uncle,  "  if  he  did  whip  Dan  Marvin  for  lying  about  me. 
I  remember  once,  over  in  New  Dorset  camp-ground,  I 
and  three  other  fellows  had  crept  into  a  thicket,  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  meeting-place,  for  a  quiet  game  of  cards. 
We  could  hear  'em  a-shouting  and  praying,  but  couldn't 
make  out  any  of  the  words,  and  so  didn't  trouble  our- 
selves about  them.  I  had  been  a-hauling  in  the  others' 
dimes  and  quarters  pretty  lively,  for  they  were  just 
about  as  green  as  grass,  while  I  wasn't  exactly  a  chicken, 
though  the  youngest  of  the  crowd.  They  played,  you 
see,  because  they  thought  it  was  wicked  ;  I  played  for  the 
fun  of  the  thing,  and  just  took  their  money  as  a  fair  price 
for  what  they  learned — or  had  a  chance  to  learn,  at  least." 

His  eyes  twinkled,  and  the  corners  of  his  mouth  drew 
down,  as  he  gave  this  ludicrous  excuse.  The  boy 
laughed  appreciatively. 

"  I  guess  I  had  got  about  all  they  had,  when  all  at 
once  we  heard  Seth's  voice.  He  was  praying,  and  I  tell 
you  the  very  birds  kept  still  to  listen  to  him.  Every  word 
came  just  as  plain  as  if  he  had  been  only  a  hundred 
feet  instead  of  half  a  hundred  rods  away.  It  was  one  of 
those  hot  summer  days  when  the  very  leaves  are  still  ; 
and  his  voice  swelled  and  echoed  under  the  maples,  as 
if  he  had  been  alone  with  God.  It  had  been  growing 
dark  under  the  trees  for  some  time,  but  there  had  not 
been   a  growl  of   thunder  nor  a  breath  of  wind.     The 


A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 


clouds  had  settled  down  and  seemed  to  rest  like  a 
blanket  on  the  tops  of  the  trees.  I've  heard  that  at 
such  times  sound  travels  farther  than  at  others — it  is 
kind  of  shut  in,  you  know,  between  earth  and  sky. 

"  But  I  didn't  think  anything  about  it,  then.  We  just 
stopped  to  listen — had  to,  you  see.  After  awhile,  I 
gathered  up  the  cards  and  put  them  in  my  pocket. 
Just  about  that  time,  your  father  began  to  tell  the  Lord 
about  me — not  in  any  roundabout  way,  but  naming  me 
right  out.  It  seemed  as  if  Jie  knew  just  where  I  was 
and  what  I  was  doing.  He  said  I  was  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  camp  engaged  in  a  sinful  play  ;  not  content  with 
periling  my  own  soul,  but  leading  others  down  to 
destruction,  also.  The  fellows  looked  at  me ;  one  of 
them  laughed,  though  his  cheeks  grew  pale,  and  Jim 
Force,  who  had  got  up  the  game,  but  had  been  losing 
pretty  steady,  said  I  made  it  pretty  profitable  being  a 
devil's  decoy.  But  the  other  fellow  spoke  up,  and 
though  his  lips  were  white  and  his  eyes  had  a  scared 
look  in  them,  he  said  that  wasn't  fair  ;  Jim  had  got  up 
the  game  himself  and  had  coaxed  the  rest  of  them  into 
it.  *  Which  I  couldn't  have  done,'  sneered  Jim,  *  if  I 
hadn't  known  that  Hod  had  a  pack  of  cards  in  his 
pocket.  It's  a  mighty  smart  game,  I  tell  you,  getting 
Seth  to  pray  like  a  hurricane  just  as  the  luck's  turning 
against  him  so  as  to  scare  the  white-livered  part  of  the 
crowd  and  break  up  the  game.  I  suppose  Seth  gets  part 
of  the  winnings  for  his  share  in  the  play.' 

"  With  that  I  took  out  my  wallet  and  gave  back  to 
each  just  what  they'd  lost,  taking  out  of  Jim's  share 
what  he'd  won  from  the  others.  Of  course,  this  left 
him  short ;  for  they  had  won  something  from  him  as  the 
game  went  on — how  much  1  didn't  know  nor  care.  But 
he  insisted  that  I'd  cheated,  and  one  word  brought  on 
another — and — well,  that  was  the  cause  of  my  fight  with 


Solitude  the  Ntirse  of  Powc7\  'j'^ 

Jim  Force.  I  don't  doubt  but  you've  heard  about  it. 
He  was  bigger  than  I,  and  stouter  ;  but  he  lacked 
action.  He  wasn't  in  good  condition,  either.  I'd  been 
on  the  Lake  ever  since  the  season  opened  until  harvest 
began,  and  swung  a  cradle  every  day  after  that.  He'd 
been  hanging  around  Kincaid's  for  two  or  three  years, 
kind  of  tending  bar — he  was  a  relative  of  Marsh,  you 
know — and  taking  the  bigger  part  of  his  pay  in  what  he 
could  swallow,  I  guess.  Anyhow,  I  got  the  better  of  him. 
As  soon  as  we  clinched,  one  of  the  fellows  ran  for  the 
camp  constable,  and  the  others  tried  to  stop  us.  Your 
father  was  the  constable,  and  I  knew  I'd  got  to  make 
quick  work  of  it,  or  he'd  be  on  before  Jim  got  his  lick- 
ing. So  I  caught  a  hip-lock  on  him,  and  when  I  threw 
him  over  on  his  head  and  shoulders,  he  kind  of  moaned, 
trembled  and  turned  white  as  if  he  was  dead.  Just 
then  I  felt  Seth's  hand  on  my  shoulder  and  knew 
I  was  under  arrest.  I  knew  he'd  do  his  duty  without 
flinching  if  I  swung  for  it. 

*'  I  thought  Jim  was  dead,  and  I  tell  you  I  felt  pretty 
streaked  ;  but  it  turned  out  he  only  had  his  collar-bone 
broken  and  had  fainted  away.  They  fined  us  ten  dol- 
lars apiece  for  fighting  on  the  ground  and  ten  more  for 
gambling.  It  was  awful  hard  on  your  pa.  All  his 
trouble  with  the  church  came  out  of  that  fight.  He 
wouldn't  stand  Dan  Marvin's  jaw,  and  when  they  wanted 
him  to  say  he  was  sorry  for  knocking  him  down,  he  said 
he  couldn't  tell  a  lie  ;  he'd  done  nothing  but  stand  up 
for  his  kith  and  kin,  and  was  only  sorry  he  had  to  do  it. 
Then  they  took  away  his  license  as  an  exhorter,  think- 
ing that  would  bring  him  around.  But  they  didn't 
know  my  brother  Seth.  He  told  'em  he  didn't  need  the 
church  to  help  him  on  the  road  to  heaven,  and  just  drew 
out,  entirely.  You  can  bet  I  felt  bad,  then.  I  promised 
fair  and  square  never  to  turn  a  card  again  for  money  ; 


74  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

and  I  meant  to  keep  my  promise,  too  ;  I  did,  in  fact. 
But,  bless  you,  boy,  I  ain't  like  your  father.  If  he  prom- 
ises a  thing,  it's  as  good  as  done,  no  matter  how  hard  it 
may  be.  I  ain't  built  that  way.  I  can't  stand  tempta- 
tion, and  it  wasn't  more  than  a  month — just  as  soon  as 
I  felt  blue  water  under  me,  in  fact — that  I  was  at  it 
again. 

"  Your  pa's  been  the  best  brother  in  the  world  to  me  ; 
but  it  wasn't  any  use.  I  wasn't  one  of  the  *  elect,'  you 
see.  That  spur  on  my  heel  has  been  my  undoing  ; 
always  itching  and  burning  whenever  I  tried  to  be 
good,  until  I  can't  rest  no  more  than  a  turkey  on  a  hot 
slice.  I  haven't  done  anything  so  very  bad,  but  I  can't 
be  good  and  pious  and  steady  like  Seth,  and  there  ain't 
no  use  in  trying.  But  I'm  going  to  pay  him  back  now 
for  all  he's  done  for  me.  I'll  have  to  do  it  in  my  own 
way,  though,  because  I  can't  do  it  in  his.  He's  set  his 
heart  on  your  being  a  minister.  I  told  him  I  didn't 
believe  there  was  any  sense  in  it,  for,  according  to  my 
judgment,  you  wasn't  cut  out  for  one.  Of  course,  I 
don't  know  the  points  of  a  minister  as  well  as  I  do  those 
of  a  horse,  but  I'd  a  notion  you'd  do  better  as  a  steam- 
boat captain,  or  something  of  that  sort,  than  you  would 
as  a  salvation  pilot.  But  he  wouldn't  listen  to  me,  and 
I  don't  blame  him.  He  says  that  no  man  can  tell 
whether  or  not  you'll  get  a  '  call ;'  but  if  you  do,  he 
wants  you  ready  to  answer  prompt,  like  a  soldier  armed 
and  equipped  for  duty  ;  and  he  made  me  promise  that 
if  he  was  taken  away  I'd  see  to  it  that  you  went  to  col- 
lege and  came  through  all  right. 

"  I  couldn't  deny  him  anything,  if  I  wanted  to,  and 
I'm  going  to  do  it.  I  owe  it  to  him,  you  see.  So  you 
may  just  as  well  make  up  your  mind  that  you  are  not 
going  to  be  a  jockey,  nor  have  anything  to  do  with 
horses,  more  than   a  little  buying  and  selling  at  least, 


Solitude  the  Ntirse  of  Poiver.  75 


after  we  get  through  with  this  matter.  Of  course, 
there's  no  harm  in  buying  and  selling  if  you  don't  swap 
nor  lie  ;  and  I  never  could  see  why  a  circuit-rider 
shouldn't  buy  a  colt  every  year,  break  him,  put  him  in 
condition  and  double  his  value  before  he  goes  to  con- 
ference the  next  year.  But  he  must  know  all  about  a 
horse  to  do  it,  and  that's  why  I've  been  giving  you 
lessons.  I  should  hate  to  see  you  taken  in  on  a  horse 
even  if  you  were  a  minister. 

"  I  don't  quite  know  how  I'm  to  manage  it,  though. 
It  would  be  easy  enough  if  I  could  have  my  own  way. 
That  colt  yonder  is  something  altogether  out  of  the 
common.  If  I  could  just  take  and  enter  him  in  a  few 
good  races  at  the  East,  we  could  make  enough  on  him 
to  settle  the  whole  matter.  But  Seth  won't  allow  that ; 
and  I  suppose  it  would  hardly  be  the  thing  to  raise 
money  to  educate  a  minister  by  betting  on  a  horse. 

"  I  expect  it  will  take  a  lot  of  money — I  don't  know 
how  much,  but  they  tell  me  them  big  colleges  are  very 
expensive.  Then,  too,  you'll  have  to  get  ready.  I 
fancy  there'll  be  as  much  as  ten  or  twelve  years'  steady 
schooling  to  pay  for.  You'll  have  to  do  the  studying, 
and  I'll  contrive  some  way  to  get  the  money,  or  to  hang 
on  to  it  after  it  is  made,  rather,  for  that's  the  hardest 
part.  Your  mother'll  have  to  be  taken  care  of,  too. 
She  ain't  such  a  manager  as  Ma  was  ;  probably  because 
Seth  has  always  taken  the  brunt  of  everything  on  his 
shoulders." 

"■  Is  my  father  going  to  die  ?"  asked  the  boy,  with  a 
wondering  sob. 

"  I  hope  not ;  but  I'm  afraid  he  can't  last  long — a 
year  or  two,  perhaps  ;  and  the  easier  we  can  make 
things  for  him,  the  longer  he  is  likely  to  stay  with  us. 
We'll  clear  off  the  mortgage  ;  I've  no  doubt  of  that, 
though  there's  nothing  exactly   certain  about  a  race 


76  A  Son  of  Old  Hai^ry. 

until  after  it's  run.  That  colt  can  beat  the  Gray  Eagle, 
and  a  good  deal  better  horse  than  the  Gray  Eagle,  too. 
It's  amazing  how  easy  he  gets  over  the  ground  ;  but 
he's  got  an  uncertain  temper,  and  is  just  the  kind  of 
beast  to  up  and  bolt  or  do  some  kind  of  devilment  at 
the  wrong  time.  He  minds  you,  because  you've  kind 
of  grown  up  together,  I  s'pose  ;  and  I  think  you  can 
get  the  best  out  of  him  every  time  you  ask  for  it.  My 
notion  is,  after  we've  won  this  race,  to  enter  him  for 
some  big  event,  win  that,  and  then  sell  him.  Seth 
couldn't  object  to  that  ;  but  in  order  to  win,  you  might 
have  to  ride  him,  and  that,  I'm  afraid,  your  father 
wouldn't  consent  to.  You  see,  the  rascal  don't  show  his 
temper  until  he's  crossed,  and  he  seems  to  think  that 
what  you  want  done  is  just  the  thing  he  wants  to  do, 
no  matter  what  it  is  ;  but  every  time  I  get  astride  of 
him  and  try  to  make  him  do  according  to  my  notion, 
there's  a  row.  Yet  there  ain't  many  men  have  a  lighter 
touch  on  a  horse  than  Hod  Goodwin.  If  your  father 
wouldn't  insist  on  making  you  a  son  of  Theophilus,  we 
could  make  a  pile  on  that  colt  this  year  and  next  ;  and 
I  allow  you  wouldn't  be  none  the  worse  for  it,  either. 
I  don't  believe  in  making  ministers  of  people  who 
have  got  the  mark  of  Old  Harry  on  their  heel,  any- 
how, and  you've  got  it ;  I  saw  it  when  you  were  a  little 
thing,  not  more  than  so  long." 

Uncle  Horace  extended  his  hands  as  he  spoke  to  show 
the  infantile  proportions. 

**  It  ain't  so  big  nor  so  red  as  mine ;  and  I  hope 
won't  ever  give  you  the  trouble  mine  has  given  me ; 
.but  after  all,  a  boy  having  it  is  sure  to  get  mixed  up 
with  horses  sooner  or  later.  I  don't  know  why  he 
shouldn't,  either.  What's  the  use  of  a  man  digging  and 
delving  and  toiling  for  money  when  he  can  get  it  with- 
out ?     I  tried  to  show  your  father  that  he  made  a  mis- 


"  Thrown  Backy  JJ 

take  coming  to  Ortonville.  There  never  was  any 
chance  for  anything  here.  Why  didn't  he  buy  up  on 
the  Lake  Shore  or  somewhere,  where  there  was  some 
likelihood  of  lightning  striking,  and  not  come  here  to 
the  very  poorest  spot  in  the  State,  where  it  is  a  dead 
certainty  things  will  never  be  any  better  than  they  are 
now.  I  don't  say  he's  too  honest ;  but  a  man  ought 
to  take  advantage  of  his  opportunity  and  get  in  the 
way  of  any  good  thing  that  is  going,  and  not  hunt  a 
hole  in  the  backwoods  and  crawl  into  it  and  draw  the 
hole  in  after  him.  I've  told  him,  over  and  over  again, 
that  if  he  had  some  of  my  riskiness,  and  I  some  of  his 
steadiness,  we'd  both  be  a  deal  better  off.  But  if  he 
will  be  a  child  of  Theophilus,  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to 
go  on  being  a  son  of  Old  Harry — just  to  keep  up  the 
average,  you  know." 

"  What  makes  you  call  him  a  child  of  Theophilus,  if 
you're  the  son  of  Old  Harry  ?  Wasn't  his  father  yours, 
too  ?" 

"Why,  of  course — but — didn't  you  ever  hear  that 
story  about  the  Goodwins  ?" 

The  boy  shook  his  head. 


CHAPTER  V. 


THROWN     BACK 


"  You  don't  know  about  Sir  Harry  and  Theophilus  ?" 
repeated  Uncle  Horace,  in  surprise. 

"Never  heard  of  either  of  them  before  to-night,"  said 
the  lad,  positively. 

"  Well,  well,  that's  queer.     I  didn't  s'pose  a  Goodwin 


78  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

ever  grew  to  your  age  without  hearing  that  story.  Per- 
haps your  father  didn't  want  you  to  know  it,  though  I 
don't  see  why  you  shouldn't,  especially  as  you  have  the 
mark  ;  but  I  don't  know  as  I  ought  to  tell  you  without 
his  consent." 

"  Please — please,  Uncle  Horace,"  urged  the  boy  in  an 
anxious  tone. 

The  young  man  rose  from  the  pile  of  hay  on  which  he 
was  reclining,  stirred  the  fire,  took  out  an  open-faced 
silver  watch,  looked  at  the  hands  by  the  firelight, 
glanced  up  at  the  sky  where  it  showed  through  a  rift  in 
the  green  mass  of  foliage  about  them,  went  to  look  at 
the  horses  lying  down  in  their  stalls,  and  returning,  said, 
as  he  sat  down  on  the  end  of  a  log  near  the  fire  and 
refilled  his  pipe  : 

"  I  never  saw  two  horses  get  along  together  as  well  as 
that  mare  and  the  colt.  She  seems  to  feel  that  the 
responsibility  is  on  her,  and  lets  the  young  one  know  its 
business  we're  here  for,  not  pleasure  ;  and  he  takes 
to  it  just  as  kindly  as  if  he  had  been  used  to  it  all  his 
life.  Have  you  noticed  how  much  they  lie  down  ? 
That's  the  way  with  a  good  horse.  One  that  don't  lie 
down  in  training,  won't  do  to  bet  on.  He  either  gets  so 
fine  that  he  can't  stand  the  pace,  or  so  nervous  that  he 
can't  be  controlled.  One  would  think,  now.  that  the 
higher  the  condition  a  horse  was  in,  the  less  he'd  sleep, 
but  it's  right  the  other  way  ;  the  better  the  condition 
and  the  more  work,  if  it's  the  right  kind,  the  more  a 
good  horse  will  sleep.  It's  about  as  bad  for  a  horse  to 
fall  off  in  his  sleep  as  in  his  feed,  unless  it's  one  of  the 
nervous  sort  that  stay  awake  all  night  and  stand  nodding 
and  staggering  in  the  stall  all  day.  It  don't  make  any 
difference  with  those,  because  about  the  best  thing  that 
can  be  done  with  one  of  that  sort  is  to  hitch  him  to  a 


"  Thrown  Back,''  79 

plow  and  let  him  work  at  a  walk  until  he  gets  sense 
enough  to  go  to  sleep  when  it  comes  night. 

**  Now  that  colt  of  yours  goes  at  it  systematically,  as  if 
he  knew  what  it  all  meant.  He's  up  in  the  morning 
bright  and  early,  asking  for  his  breakfast ;  takes  his  sup 
of  water,  eats  his  oats,  and  comes  out  stretching  one  leg 
after  the  other  out  behind  him,  making  the  ribs  show, 
as  he  bends  his  back  and  draws  in  his  wind  with  a  yawn, 
for  all  the  world  like  a  hound  which  is  just  spoiling  for 
a  run.  He's  rested,  you  see.  His  muscles  are  live 
springs  that  fairly  ache  to  be  pulled  and  stretched. 
When  you  notice  that,  and  find  the  white  of  the  eyes 
clear  and  bright,  and  see  the  ears  all  in  a  quiver,  or,  if 
he's  a  little  hot-tempered,  lying  flat  on  the  head,  and 
his  mouth  opening  to  show  his  teeth  on  the  slightest 
provocation,  and  especially  if  he  puts  out  a  fore-leg,  as 
if  he  couldn't  stand  still  or  was  anxious  to  take  boxing 
lessons,  just  touching  the  ground  with  the  toe  as  he 
draws  it  back,  first  one  foot  and  then  the  other,  then,  if 
his  coat  is  shining  and  his  hide  soft,  you  may  know  a 
horse  is  in  '  condition  *  or  getting  pretty  near  it. 

"  That's  the  way  with  that  colt,  now.  You'll  observe 
that,  after  he's  had  an  Itour's  work,  with  a  sharp  little 
dash  at  the  end,  just  to  spread  his  lungs  and  clear  his 
nostrils,  and  we  bring  him  in  and  blanket  him,  give 
him  another  little  sup,  and  let  him  munch  his  hay 
while  we  eat  breakfast,  he  comes  out  to  be  rubbed 
down  with  a  step  as  springy  as  a  lady's  on  a  danc- 
ing-floor, and  is  just  as  full  of  pranks  as  a  kitten. 
And  when  every  part  of  him  has  been  rubbed  and 
kneaded  and  washed  and  scraped,  and  he's  stood  in 
the  pool  a  while  to  cool  his  legs,  soften  his  hoofs  and 
keep  the  fever  out,  drinking  just  as  much  as  he's  a 
mind  to,  and  you  bring  him  in,  dry  off  his  legs,  and 
take  him  to  his  stall,  you'll  see  him  lie  down,  stretch 


8o  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

out,  and,  perhaps,  roll  over  once  or  twice  ;  then  he'll 
curl  himself  up,  and  before  you  know  it  he's  ofiE  to 
sleep  and  nodding  like  a  judge.  He  isn't  tired ;  he's 
just  taking  comfort. 

"  When  it  comes  dinner-time,  he's  ready  for  his  feed, 
and  in  an  hour  afterward,  is  pawing  and  fretting  for  a 
chance  to  go.  When  a  horse  gets  in  *  condition,'  he's 
just  got  to  go.  He'll  race  with  himself,  try  to  outrun 
his  shadow,  or  match  himself  against  time  along  a 
worm-fence,  if  there's  no  other  way.  I've  a  notion  he 
makes  himself  believe  that  the  fence  corners  are  trying 
to  run  by  him.  When  you  get  a  horse  up  to  that  point, 
he'll  not  only  do  his  best,  but  he'll  do  it  just  as  often  as 
he  has  a  chance  to  sleep  up  and  get  the  spring  back 
into  his  muscles  and  tendons.  But  he's  got  to  have 
sleep.  There  isn't  any  feed  or  physic  that'll  take  the 
place  of  that.  So  I  always  want  a  horse  I'm  training 
to  be  w^here  there  isn't  much  going  on.  One  or  two 
other  horses,  just  for  company,  you  know ;  but  no 
crowd  and  no  lights.  When  a  horse  lies  down  after 
supper,  he  wants  it  dark — dark  and  still  ;  and  then,  if 
he's  in  condition  and  the  right  kind  of  a  horse  to  put 
money  on,  you'll  find  him  lying  as  still  as  a  mouse  until 
the  birds  sing  and  he  begins  to  whinny  for  his  oats 
in  the  morning.  They've  both  laid  down  now,  but 
they  won't  be  ready  to  go  to  sleep  for  half  an  hour  yet. 
They  are  just  taking  comfort  lying  there,  listening  to 
our  talk." 

The  boy  laughed  at  the  idea. 

"  You  don't  think  they  care  about  that,  eh  ?  That's 
because  you  don't  understand  horse-nature.  I  don't 
mean  to  say  that  they  comprehend  exactly  what  we  say, 
though  they  make  out  a  good  deal  from  the  tones.  For 
instance,  they  know  whether  we  are  angry  or  good- 
natured.     If  I  should  begin  to  scold  you  now,  they'd  be 


Thrown  Back.'" 


on  their  feet  in  two  minutes.  I  saw  a  fight  in  a  stable 
once  where  there  was  a  string  of  thoroughbreds.  It 
didn't  last  more  than  five  minutes — just  a  lively  fist- 
and-skull  affair.  The  horses  were  in  box-stalls  with 
square  holes  in  the  front  so  they  could  look  out  on  the 
big  barn-floor  where  the  fight  occurred,  but  couldn't  be 
hit  nor  hurt.  I  hardly  ever  saw  a  set  of  men  take  more 
interest  in  a  row  than  those  horses  did.  They  listened 
to  the  quarrel,  and,  when  the  fighting  began,  there  was 
almost  as  much  excitement  in  the  stalls  as  on  the  floor. 
The  horses  puffed  and  blovved  ;  some  of  'em  kicked,  and 
when  it  was  over,  half  of  those  colts  were  in  a  tremble 
of  excitement,  much  as  if  they  had  been  children  who 
weren't  accustomed  to  family  rows. 

"  Now  you  think  those  horses  don't  enjoy  hearing  us 
talk,  perhaps.  Just  let  me  light  my  pipe,  and  we'll  walk 
around  the  foot  of  the  hill  out  of  sight,  and  keep  still 
awhile  and  see  what  they'll  say." 

He  took  up  a  hickory  splinter,  the  end  of  which  was 
a  glowing  coal,  and  pressed  it  on  his  pipe. 

"  Come  on,  now,"  he  said,  as  he  rose  and  led  the  way. 
They  walked  on  until  the  base  of  the  hill  shut  the 
cabin  from  view  ;  a  moment  later  their  voices  died 
away,  and  all  was  still  at  the  training  stable.  An  owl 
lighted  upon  a  limb  of  an  old  chestnut  just  across  the 
brook  from  the  silent  sugar-house,  and  hooted  out  his 
challenge  to  the  fire-lit  camp.  Presently  the  colt 
whinnied  a  low,  inquiring  call. 

"  Keep  still,"  said  Uncle  Horace.  "  He  thinks  we'll 
answer  him  ;  but  he's  got  to  call  louder  than  that  before 
we  do.  There  he  goes  again.  What  do  you  think  of 
that,  now  ?" 

It  was  a  loud,  impatient  call  this  time,  and  was 
seconded  by  one  somewhat  less  imperious  from  the 
Queen. 


82  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

"  You  see  the  old  mare  is  getting  anxious,  too.  There, 
the  colt  has  got  up  to  see  if  he  can't  wind  us.  She's  up, 
too,  and  they're  calling  to  us  in  the  imperative  mood, 
now.  You  answer  the  colt,  and  I'll  whistle  to  Queenie 
next  time,  and  then  we  must  hurry  back,  for  it  won't 
do  to  let  them  get  too  excited  at  this  hour  ;  they 
wouldn't  sleep  a  wink  all  night  if  they  did," 

They  hastened  back,  to  find  the  horses  standing  up, 
pawing  and  looking  eagerly  around,  their  bright  eyes 
flashing  in  the  firelight,  as  if  making  inquiry  about  the 
absence  of  their  guardians. 

"  There,"  said  Uncle  Horace,  laying  down  his  pipe 
upon  the  jamb  of  the  stone  arch,  "  I'll  leave  the  pipe 
there.  I  think  horses  generally  like  the  smell  of 
tobrcco  smoke  if  it  isn't  too  strong  ;  but  it  certainly 
makes  them  dull  to  have  too  much  of  it,  especially  in 
their  stalls.  I  wouldn't  allow  a  man  to  smoke  in  a  sta- 
ble, but  I've  seen  a  horse  follow  a  stranger  all  about  a 
paddock  for  a  whiff  of  his  cigar.  A  horse  is  very  sensi- 
tive about  smells,  as  well  as  sights  and  sounds.  Let's 
go  in  now  so  they  can  see  we're  all  right,  and  while 
they're  quieting  down,  I'll  finish  my  pipe  and  tell  you 
about  Sir  Harry.  It's  time  you  knew  something  about 
the  Goodwin  pedigree,  anyhow. 

**  Now,"  continued  the  uncle,  resuming  his  pipe  and 
seating  himself  on  a  huge  stump  that  served  also  as  a 
corner-post  of  the  cabin,  "  what  was  it  you  wanted  to 
know  about  ?  O,  yes,  I  remember.  You  asked  why  I 
called  your  father  a  child  of  Theophilus  and  myself  a 
son  of  Old  Harry.  Yes,  we  had  the  same  father  and 
mother ;  but,  you  see,  that's  a  sort  of  superstition,  or 
rather,  a  tradition  of  the  family.  The  Goodwins  are 
never  alike.  There's  always  some  black  sheep  among 
the  white  ones.  The  white  sheep  we  call  the  children 
of  Theophilus,  and   the  black  ones  the   sons   of   Old 


"  Thrown  Back:'  83 

Harry.  They're  always  sons — never  daughters,  at  least 
I  never  heard  of  any — and  there  is  always  one  in  each 
generation  who  has  Old  Harry's  mark  on  him.  The 
children  of  Theophilus  are  just  about  the  whitest  lambs 
that  were  ever  born  into  the  world.  Your  father  is  one 
of  that  kind,  I  think  a  speck  on  his  fleece,  even  if  it 
was  so  small  that  nobody  else  could  see  it,  would  mighty 
near  kill  him.  I'm  not  anyway  sure  that  it  wasn't  the 
trouble  with  the  church  over  the  licking  of  Dan  Marvin 
that  brought  on  his  sickness.  The  children  of  Theo- 
philus are  all  that  way.  They  may  be  hard-headed  and 
strong-limbed,  but  they  are  thin-skinned — always 
thin-skinned  and  tender-bitted.  They  don't  always 
get  along  well  in  the  world,  though  they  are  the  most 
industrious  and  deserving  people  that  ever  lived.  Do 
all  they  can,  they  don't  ever  seem  to  get  forehanded, 
though  they're  always  pinching  themselves  and  doing 
without  what  they  want  and  sometimes  what  they  need 
in  order  to  get  ahead. 

'*  The  sons  of  Old  Harry  aren't  that  kind  of  folks ; 
they  aren't  near  so  good.  They  grade  all  the  way  from 
just  kind  of  soiled  and  smutched  to  dead  solid  black — 
from  mere  sinners  to  great  rascals.  They're  never 
forehanded,  either,  but  they  always  have  enough,  and 
its  generally  about  the  best  that's  going,  too.  They 
don't  own  lands  and  houses,  but  they  are  sure  to  be 
good  horsemen  and  generally  have  a  good  time  while 
alive,  without  much  thought  of  what  may  come  after- 
ward. They're  almost  always  good-natured,  and  nearly 
everybody  likes  them,  though  but  few  speak  well  of 
them.  The  fact  is,  there's  always  a  mistake  somewhere 
in  making  up  the  family  record.  If  the  children 
of  Theophilus  weren't  quite  so  good  and  the  sons 
of  Old  Harry  were  just  a  little  better,  it  would 
be  a  great  advantage  to  the  stock  and  no  harm  to  the 


84  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

world — so  far  as  I  can  see,  at  least."  Horace  looked 
into  the  fire  and  sighed  deeply. 

'*  But  what  makes  you  call  my  father  a  child  of  Theo- 
philus  ?"  asked  the  boy,  impatiently,  looking  up  from  the 
block  of  wood  which  served  him  as  a  stool. 

"  O,  yes,  I  'most  forget  what  I  set  out  to  tell  you," 
said  the  uncle,  starting  from  his  reverie.  "  Well,  you 
see,  the  Goodwins  are  an  old  family — about  as  old  as 
any  in  the  country,  I  guess.  I  don't  know  as  any  of 
'em  came  over  in  the  Mayflower — you've  heard  of  the 
Mayflower  V 

"  *  The  breaking  waves  dashed  high 
On  a  stern  and  rock-bound  coast ; 
The  trees  against  a  stormy  sky 
Their  giant  branches  tossed  !'  " 

quoted  the  boy,  in  shrill,  quavering  tones,  that  told  how 
often  he  had  declaimed  the  lines. 

"  Exactly,"  said  the  uncle,  nodding  approval.  "  Well, 
I  don't  know  whether  the  Goodwins  were  amongst  that 
first  company  or  not,  but  they  weren't  far  behind.  And 
before  they  came  to  this  country  they  were  very  respect- 
able people  in  England — that  is,  I  take  it  they  were 
respectable — for  the  first  we  knew  about  them — or  the 
first  I  ever  heard  of  them — was  of  Sir  Harry  Goodwin, 
or  Godwin  rather,  for  that  was  the  way  he  spelled  the 
name,  who  was  the  Master  of  Horse  for  King  Charles — 
that's  a  sort  of  military  officer  who  had  command  of  the 
cavalry.  The  story  is  that  he  was  a  pretty  tough  cus- 
tomer, as  was  natural  in  those  times,  a  hard-hitter  and 
about  the  best  horseman  in  the  whole  army  of  gay 
Cavaliers. 

"  They  say  at  one  of  the  battles  with  the  Roundheads 
— I  forget  which — he  advised  the  king,  when  things  were 
getting  bad  for  them,  to  charge  with  his  whole  army — 


"  Throw 71  Back" 


rignt,  left  and  centre — and  end  the  business  then  and 
there.  You  see  he  knew  the  Cavaliers,  as  they  called 
King  Charles's  men,  were  better  on  the  charge  than  on 
the  defense  ;  and  he  thought  if  he  drove  in  the  enemy's 
flankers,  they  would  get  all  tangled  up  in  a  certain  lane 
somewhere  about  the  center  of  their  line,  so  that  all  the 
king's  men  would  have  to  do  would  be  to  kill  them  off 
until  there  wasn't  enough  left  to  carry  on  the  war,  and 
then  the  king  could  just  go  back  to  London  town  and 
carry  on  as  he'd  always  been  doing — riding  rough  -shod 
over  people  and  Parliament.  They  say  King  Charles 
agreed  to  this,  and  Sir  Harry  rode  back  to  his  horse- 
soldiers  and  charged  with  them  as  he  promised  to  do, 
but  the  king  stood  still  and  waited  to  see  what  would 
come  of  it,  instead  of  pitching  in  to  help  them.  The 
consequence  was  that  Sir  Harry's  men  got  all  cut  up 
and  the  king  ran  away.  Charles  blamed  it  all  on  Prince 
Rupert,  they  say,  claiming  that  he  didn't  obey  orders  ; 
but  everybody  believes  it  was  the  fickle  king's  own 
fault,  who  never  knew  his  own  mind  and  was  always 
willing  to  sacrifice  a  friend  to  save  himself. 

"  The  Master  of  the  Horse  was  reported  killed,  but 
he  wasn't — only  badly  wounded — and,  as  it  happened, 
one  of  Cromwell's  pious  troopers  took  charge  of  him  ; 
he  had  been  wounded  himself,  and  so  didn't  have  to 
march  with  the  rest  of  the  army.  When  the  Cavalier 
got  well,  it  was  Hobson's  choice,  I  s'pose,  whether  he'd 
own  up  who  he  was  and  have  his  neck  stretched,  or  join 
the  psalm-singers  and  fight  against  Charles.  Of 
course,  he  didn't  feel  very  kindly  toward  the  king,  who 
had  left  him  in  the  lurch,  and  he'd  been  so  near  death 
that  he  probably  thought  it  might  be  well  enough  to 
forsake  his  bad  ways  and  take  on  a  little  religion  for  the 
rest  of  the  voyage  ;  for,  although  Charles  himself  was 
well  enough  and  even  inclined  to  religion  of  some  sort 


86  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

at  times,  he  seems  to  have  had  a  pretty  tough  crowd 
around  him,  and  Sir  Harry,  it  is  said,  was  the  worst 
roysterer  of  them  all.  Besides,  he  had  been  one  of 
Staffords's  men  and  probably  thought  he  stood  to  be 
abandoned  by  the  king  sooner  or  later,  as  the  great  earl 
had  been.  It  seems  he'd  been  plundered  while  he  lay 
on  the  field,  and  so  had  nothing  about  him  to  show  his 
rank,  or  even  that  he  was  a  Cavalier,  except  his  long 
hair.  This  all  came  out  with  the  fever  that  followed 
his  wound,  and  left  his  head  as  bare  as  a  bird's  eye, 
except  a  little  scruff  as  white  as  snow  around  the  neck 
from  ear  to  ear.  When  his  beard  and  mustache  had 
been  cut  off  and  he  began  to  crawl  around  in  plain 
clothes,  nobody  recognized  him  as  the  dashing  leader  of 
the  king's  horse,  but  everybody  took  him  for  one  of 
Cromwell's  private  soldiers. 

"  Well,  the  upshot  of  it  was  that  he  was  converted 
and  made  a  confident  of  the  sergeant  who  had  charge 
of  him,  and  between  the  two  it  was  fixed  up  that  he 
should  'make  a  profession'  and  join  Cromwell's  own 
company  of  horse,  called  the  Ironsides,  It  was  the 
custom  in  those  days,  it  seems,  especially  among  the 
very  religious  crowd  that  followed  Cromwell  and  the 
Parliament,  to  take  all  sorts  of  outlandish  names  on 
making  a  profession  of  belief  and  being  baptized.  As 
they  considered  it  a  new  birth,  they  thought  it  was 
no  harm  to  take  new  names.  So  men  called  them- 
selves, *  Smite-them-to-the-quick  Jones,'  Praise-God 
Barebones;'  and  our  Sir  Harry,  to  keep  up  the  fashion 
and  hide  himself  at  the  same  time  no  doubt,  dropped 
his  name  and  title  and  called  himself  Theophilus  Good- 
win, which  wasn't  so  very  bad,  being  a  modest  enough 
name,  which  means  God-lover.  I  s'pose  he  put  the 
other  *  o'  in  *  Godwin'  as  the  easiest  way  of  disguising 


"  Thrown  Back?'  87 


the  name  without  getting  far  enough  away  from  it  to 
keep  him  from  harking  back  if  he  ever  wanted  to. 

'*  Indeed,  I've  heard  it  said  that  one  of  his  reasons  for 
the  change  might  have  been — I  don'6  say  it  was — to 
save,  a  nice  little  estate,  which  would  go  to  his  son  if  he 
was  accounted  dead,  in  case  the  king  should  prevail, 
and  which  he  could  claim  if  the  Parliament  came  out 
ahead. 

"  I  don't  suppose  either  of  these  motives  were  entirely 
responsible  for  his  changing  his  coat  and  his  religion  at 
the  same  time.  Probably  men  acted  then  as  they  do 
now,  from  a  variety  of  motives,  of  which  very  often  the 
one  that  seems  the  weakest  is  really  the  strongest.  At 
any  rate,  there  seems  to  be  no  doubt  that  Theophilus 
Goodwin  served  the  people  and  Parliament  just  as  faith- 
fully as  Sir  Harry  Godwin  had  served  the  king.  Crom- 
well knew  a  good  soldier,  and  didn't  leave  the  new 
convert  very  long  in  the  ranks.  Perhaps  he  knew  the 
old  swordsman  in  spite  of  his  bare  face  and  bald  head, 
or  perhaps  Sergeant  Comfort-ye-my-people  Jacobson 
did  not  keep  the  secret  as  well  as  he  might.  Crom- 
well had  a  strange  way  of  finding  out  things,  they  say. 
At  any  rate,  he  was  soon  promoted  to  a  company,  then 
to  a  troop,  and  presently  given  a  regiment  of  his  own  ; 
so  that  Colonel  Theophilus  Goodwin  became  about  as 
big  a  man  with  the  Roundheads  as  Sir  Harry  Godwin 
had  been  with  the  Cavaliers. 

"  But,  after  a  while,  they  had  a  worse  fight  than  they 
had  ever  had  before,  at  a  place  called  Naseby.  Old  Sir 
Harry  had  a  son,  a  hot-tempered  lad,  hardly  sixteen, 
who  joined  the  king's  horse  as  soon  as  he  heard  his 
father  was  killed,  and  had  been  made  a  comet,  partly 
for  the  sake  of  his  father,  and  partly  because  he  showed 
himself  as  brave  as  Julius  Caesar.  When  the  Round- 
heads under  Colonel  Theophilus  charged  the  king's  men 


88  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

in  this  last  fight,  they  found  young  Harry  Godwin  in 
the  lead,  just  crazy  with  the  notion  of  avenging  his 
father's  death.  He  couldn't  help  seeing  who  the  leader 
of  the  psalm-singers  was,  for  the  old  fighter  was  always 
in  the  front,  I  take  it,  and  he  went  for  him  just  as 
straight  as  an  arrow.  His  father  knew  him,  of  course, 
as  soon  as  he  set  eyes  on  him,  and  tried  to  get  away, 
but  it  was  no  use.  The  boy  was  on  him  hacking  and 
hewing  with  his  sword,  before  he  could  turn  aroimd. 
Of  course,  Colonel  Goodwin  wouldn't  strike  back,  but 
just  tried  to  parry  the  blows,  until,  finally,  the  same 
sergeant  who  had  nursed  him  when  he  was  woimded, 
came  up  and  gave  the  boy  a  death-blow  before  the 
father  could  call  out  to  stop  him,  thinking,  no  doubt, 
that  he  was  doing  his  officer  a  great  favor. 

"  That  was  the  last  of  Colonel  Theophilus.  That  bat- 
tle ended  the  war.  He  quit  the  army ;  went  off  and 
hid  himself  somewhere  for  a  time,  and  finally  came  to 
this  country.  He  was  a  hard,  stem  man,  always  pray- 
ing to  be  forgiven  for  the  death  of  the  boy  he  loved. 
Yet,  he  married  again,  and  had  two  sons  afterward. 
One  of  them,  they  say,  was  as  sober  as  anybody  could 
wish  ;  but  the  other,  who  was  born  with  a  red  spur  on 
his  heel,  took  to  wild  ways,  went  to  sea  and  came  to  a 
bad  end  along  with  a  gang  of  pirates,  somewhere  in  the 
West  Indies.  After  this  the  old  man  concluded  he  had 
committed  the  '  unpardonable  sin,'  in  having  caused  his 
oldest  son's  death,  and  that  on  account  of  this  a  curse 
rested  on  his  children  and  their  descendants  forever  ; 
one  son  always  being  predestined  to  go  to  the  devil. 

"  In  this  he  wasn't  far  wrong — at  least,  he  hadn't 
been  up  to  this  time.  Ever  since  there  has  been  one  in 
every  generation  of  the  Goodwins  who  has  been  a  black 
sheep  ;  not  always  very  bad  ;  but  shiftless  and  reckless, 
instead    of    being    steady    and    restaectable.       Queer 


"  Thrown  Back'^  89 

enough,  too,  this  has  always  been  the  one  born  with  the 
mark  of  the  red  spur  on  his  left  heel.  So  we  call  them 
the  sons  of  Old  Harry,  because  they  are  likely  to  turn 
out  something  like  the  old  Master  of  the  Horse;  and  the 
others  we  call  the  children  of  Theophilus,  because  they 
are  always  glum  and  sober — the  *  select  infants,'  pre- 
destined to  salvation.  They  are  like  the  old  fighter 
was  after  he  turned  Puritan  and  sang  psalms." 

''  Am  I  a  son  of  Old  Harry,  uncle  ?"  asked  the  boy, 
who  had  listened  with  almost  breathless  interest  to  his 
uncle's  narrative,  in  an  anxious  tone. 

"  It's  hard  to  tell,"  answered  the  uncle,  seriously. 
"  You've  got  the  mark,  and  nobody  who's  had  that  on 
his  heel  has  ever  yet  been  able  to  get  along  without 
showing  some  signs  of  it  in  his  ways." 

The  boy  turned  his  left  foot  to  the  firelight  and  care- 
fully scrutinized  the  heel.  A  narrow  line  of  red  ran 
along  on  each  side  almost  to  the  hollow  of  the  foot, 
branching  downward  in  front  of  the  heel  and  upward 
toward  the  instep. 

"  'Tain't  nothing  compared  with  mine,"  said  the 
man,  gravely,  "  and  I've  been  told  mine  wasn't  any- 
thing to  compare  with  what  they  used  to  have.  I've 
heard  that  one  of  the  worst  of  'em  had  a  heel  as  red  as 
if  it  had  been  parboiled.  Mine  don't  trouble  me  much 
except  during  the  racing  season — it  gets  pretty  hot, 
then." 

He  drew  off  his  boot  and  held  the  foot  toward  the 
light  as  he  spoke.  The  mark  was  heavier  and  redder 
than  on  the  boy's,  and  had  an  unmistakable  likeness  to 
a  spur. 

**  Does  one  have  to  be  bad  who  has  that  mark  .?"  asked 
the  lad. 

"  Pshaw,  no.  I  don't  s'pose  it  makes  any  difference. 
It's  probably  the  unsteadiness  that  makes   the  mark 


90  A  Soft  of  Old  Harry. 

talked  about  ;  though  there's  something  in  the  idea 
that  if  you  give  a  dog  a  bad  name  he'll  deserve  it.  I 
suppose  every  Goodwin  with  that  beauty  spot  on  his 
heel  has  been  told  this  very  story  until  he  has  come  to 
think  himself  elected  to-go  to  the  devil  anyhow,  and  so 
don't  try  to  do  anything  better." 

"  Do  you  think  so,  Uncle  Horace  ?" 

"  Well,  as  I  said,  I  don't  believe  it  was  my  heel  that 
affected  me.  I  guess  I  was  naturally  unsettled  and 
trifling.  I've  sometimes  thought  that  if  your  father 
had  known  just  how  to  manage  me  I  might  have  been 
a  credit  to  the  family  ;  but  he  didn't,  and  he  ain't  to 
blame  for  it.  Religion  and  hard  work  are  just  about 
all  he  thinks  a  man  is  fit  for.  I  didn't  take  to  either  ; 
but  if  he'd  encouraged  me  to  trade,  I  tell  you  what  it  is, 
I  believe  I'd  have  made  my  Jack  long  ago — I  do,  for  a 
fact.  But  here  I  am,  nigh  thirty,  and  not  been  able  to 
settle  down  yet.  It  really  does  begin  to  look  as  if  I 
was  likely  to  be  one  of  Old  Harry's  genuine  red- 
heeled,  no-account  Goodwins  that  thinks  more  of  a 
horse  than  he  does  of  a  home,  and  more  of  his  liberty 
than  he  does  of  his  soul.  I  s'pose  that's  the  reason  I've 
never  married.  Very  few  of  that  sort  of  Goodwins  do  ; 
and  I  guess  it  would  be  as  well  if  none  of  'em  did. 
Them  that  have  married  didn't  make  any  too  good  hus- 
bands." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  The  owl  hooted  from 
the  chestnut-stub  opposite,  and  a  fox  barked  up  the 
valley. 

"  Uncle  Horace,"  said  the  boy,  firmly,  "  I'm  not  going 
to  be  a  son  of  Old  Harry." 

"  Think  you  have  struck  back  to  Theophilus,  eh  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  don't  want  to  be  a  minister,  either  ;  but  I'm 
not  going  to  be  a  son  of  Old  Harry." 

"  I  hope  you  won't,  but  you've  got  the  mark,"  said 


"  Thrown  Back'^  91 

the  uncle,  as  he  rose,  put  up  his  pipe  and  drew  the  ashes 
over  the  fire  with  a  wooden  scraper.  "  Of  course,"  he 
continued,  **  it  will  wear  out  some  time — the  mark,  I 
mean,  and  it  is  mighty  faint  with  you.  Besides,  you've 
got  lots  of  the  Howel  blood  in  you — that  was  ma's 
family,  you  know — steady,  forehanded  folks,  not  very 
pious,  but  always  well  to-do.  Seth  and  I  have  often 
spoken  about  it.  You  look  like  'em,  especially  like  Uncle 
Hubert,  that's  why  he  gave  you  the  name,  and  the  older 
you  grow  the  more  you  act  like  'em,  too.  He  was  rich  ; 
everything  he  touched  turned  ifito  money  without  any 
effort ;  didn't  seem  to  make  any  difference  what  it  was. 
I  think  you're  lucky,  too,  and  I  hope  you'll  succeed  in 
whatever  you  undertake  ;  but  you  mustn't  ever  forget 
you're  Seth  Goodwin's  son.  It's  time  to  turn  in  now, 
and  give  Old  Harry  a  rest ;  the  colt'll  be  calling  you 
before  you're  ready  to  turn  out,  if  you  don't  get  to  snor- 
ing soon." 

Long  after  they  had  retired  to  their  beds  of  straw  and 
drawn  the  heavy  blankets  over  them,  the  boy  lay  awake 
thinking  of  what  he  had  heard,  and  praying  that  he 
might  be  spared  the  mysterious  fate  which  the  mark  of 
the  old  Master  of  the  Horse  stamped  on  one  of  every 
generation  of  his  descendants.  Prayer  was  almost  as 
natural  an  act  to  him  as  respiration.  From  his  earliest 
memory  he  had  heard  the  voice  of  supplication  morn- 
ing and  evening.  The  story  he  had  just  heard  shed 
light  upon  many  a  passionate  invocation  to  which  he 
had  listened.  He  knew  now  why  his  father  so  often 
prayed  with  such  earnest  tenderness  for  his  uncle 
Horace  and  himself.  He  understood,  or  thought  he  did, 
the  oft-recurring  petition  that  the  "  mark  of  the  beast  " 
might  be  washed  out  by  the  "  blood  of  the  Lamb."  He 
prayed  now  with  childish  simplicity  that  his  father's 
petition  might  be  heard,  and  the  fatal  mark  lose  its 


92  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

power  with  him,  and  had  no  doubt  that  his  prayer  would 
be  answered.  He  did  not  wish  to  be  a  child  of  The- 
ophilus,  but  he  promised,  sobbingly,  to  be  a  very  good 
man,  if  he  might  only  be  spared  from  becoming  a  son 
of  Old  Harry  ;  and  with  this  petition  on  his  lips  he  fell 
asleep. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

KARMA    OR    ATAVIA, 

The  student  of  heredity  in  the  human  family  is  ever 
and  anon  confounded  with  seeming  miracles.  The 
weakest  lives  sometimes  produce  the  strongest ;  and  the 
converse  is  so  often  true  that  science  has  finally  been 
compelled  to  abandon  one  of  its  favorite  hypotheses 
and  admit  that,  so  far  as  man  is  concerned  at  least,  the 
rule  of  upward  gradation  may  be  forever  broken  by  a 
single  instance  of  unusual  brilliancy.  So  it  has  come  to 
be  an  accepted  corollary  of  the  hereditability  of  human 
attributes  that  the  over-taxed  brain  cannot  give  forth 
a  healthful  life.  But  there  are  worse  puzzles  than  this 
which  the  scientific  observer  must  meet.  In  spite  of 
the  principle  that  like  produces  like,  we  meet  every  day 
with  instances  of  unlikeness  so  startling  as  to  confound 
the  observer,  and,  for  a  time  at  least,  destroy  all  faith  in 
scientific  theories  of  life.  From  the  most  unpromising 
stocks  we  see  springing  up  the  most  consummate  flowers 
of  human  perfection.  Whence  come  they  ?  Is  the 
mystery  of  life  wholly  insoluble,  or  is  the  oriental 
dogma  of  pre-existence  true  ?    On  what  theory  shall 


Karma  or  Atavia.  93 

we  account  for  Delia,  the  sweet,  gentle  daughter  of 
Marshall  Kincaid  and  his  wife  Olivia  ? 

"  King  Marsh,"  as  he  was  nicknamed  by  a  punning 
abbreviation  of  both  Christian  name  and  surname,  was 
a  man  of  striking  appearance  and  pronounced  charac- 
teristics. He  was  of  powerful  build  ;  so  broad  as  to 
create  the  impression  that  he  was  of  less  than  average 
height,  though  in  truth  considerably  above  it  ;  some- 
what inclined  to  flesh,  but  of  remarkable  activity.  His 
thick,  round  neck,  which  rose  from  a  pair  of  mighty 
shoulders,  bore  a  head  as  evenly  balanced  as  if  its  cen- 
tre of  gravity  were  never  shifted,  which  was  covered 
with  a  heavy  shock  of  reddish  hair,  among  which  the 
white  was  beginning  to  show.  His  round,  full  face 
was  smooth -shaven,  and  except  in  the  coldest  of  weather, 
he  was  usually  found  with  his  sleeves  rolled  above  his 
elbows,  and  not  unfrequently  barefooted,  his  hairy 
breast  showing  beneath  the  white,  unlaundried  shirt. 
His  small  grey  eyes,  thin  lips  and  upward-pointing 
nose  gave  character  to  a  face  by  no  means  repellent, 
but  which,  studied  in  detail,  gave  a  clew  to  his  success. 

Marshall  Kincaid  had  set  out  early  in  life  to  become 
a  rich  man.  He  had  far  enough  to  go,  for  his  family 
was  of  the  poorest ;  but  he  had  strength,  cunning, 
unscrupulousness  and  will.  He  had  a  fair  education  for 
those  days.  He  had  mastered  the  three  R's,  and  that 
was  enough.  Knowledge  was  to  him  a  thing  for  use,  not 
ornament.  It  was  no  wonder  he  had  prospered.  He 
had  no  thought  for  anything  but  gain,  and  to  that  gave 
night  and  day,  never  sparing  himself.  After  a  hard 
day's  work  at  the  store,  he  would,  perhaps,  lie  down 
upon  the  counter  and  catch  a  few  hours'  sleep  ;  rise, 
harness,  his  horse  and  by  daylight  be  twenty-five  miles 
away,  still  sleeping  in  the  buggy,  m  which  he  sat  bolt 
Upright, 


94  ^  '^071  of  Old  Harry. 

His  wife  was  a  fit  mate  for  so  marked  a  character. 
Thin-visaged,  tall,  sharp -tongned,  and  with  keen,  beady- 
eyes  set  close  beside  the  narrow  promontory  that  ran 
down  from  the  low,  angular  forehead  and  threateningly 
overhung  the  thin  line  of  the  mouth  below,  around 
either  comer  of  which  the  wrinkles  gathered  in  radiat- 
iiig"  groups.  Her  hair  was  black  almost  to  blueness, 
but  fine  and  thin.  Her  nature  was  one  that  could  not 
tolerate  profusion  in  anything.  She  was  as  unscrupu- 
lous as  her  husband  and  twice  as  keen  and  hard ;  so 
people  said.  What  he  made,  that  she  kept.  What  he 
did  not  think  of,  that  she  suggested.  What  he  was 
unable  to  do,  she  never  left  undone.  If  he  was  absent 
from  the  store,  she  attended  to  it.  If  he  was  occupied 
with  the  store,  she  looked  after  the  tavern. 

The  one  thing  in  which  they  differed  was  his  fancy 
for  a  good  horse.  It  was  his  sole  extravagance — his 
one  fault,  his  wife  said.  Though  he  had  sold  more 
liquor  than  any  man  for  miles  around,  he  boasted  he 
had  never  tasted  a  drop.  Many  a  famous  game  had 
been  played  in  his  house,  he  watching  the  players' 
hands  and  sharing  their  excitement  ;  but  he  never 
turned  a  card. 

The  fair-haired  Delia — the  parents  called  her  Deely 
— was  the  one  ray  of  sunshine  in  their  lives.  The 
mother  had  heard  that  there  was  some  magic  potency 
in  a  hundred  brush-strokes  a  day  bestowed  upon  the 
golden  coils,  and  the  hard  hands  were  never  too  weary 
to  give  them,  nor  the  lips  too  cold  to  intersperse 
them  with  fierce,  hot  kisses. 

As  for  the  father,  he  dreamed  of  her,  in  hard,  self- 
glorying  phrases  sang  her  praise,  and  saw  his  toils 
and  sacrifices  rewarded  in  the  triumphs  and  attainments 
he  meant  she  should  possess  through  his  endeavor. 
Both  parents  were  agreed  that  she  should  be  the  most 


Karma  or  Atavia.  95 

accomplished,  as  she  would  be  the  richest,  and  wa^ 
already  the  fairest  girl  in  all  the  country  round.  The 
mother  exulted  and  planned  social  triumphs,  as  well  as 
material  supremacy.  For  her  sake  they  attended 
"  meeting  "  regularly.  For  her  sake  the  father  toler- 
ated the  aristocracy  of  the  East  village,  though  he  still 
used  the  name  of  "  Skunk  Holler  "  to  designate  it.  For 
her  sake  he  subscribed  liberally  to  the  select  school ; 
for  her  sake  Seth  Goodwin  had  been  "  accommodated," 
when  in  need  of  fiinds,  and  Mrs.  Kincaid  had  "  put  her- 
self out "  to  be  on  good  terms  with  timid  Mrs.  Goodwin. 
An  intimacy  had  grown  up  between  the  boy  and  the 
girl,  therefore,  which  was  strengthened  by  their  attend- 
ance at  the  same  school  and  the  boy's  fancy  for  the 
horses  which  thronged  the  inn-keeper's  stable.  Thus 
Delia  became  the  ambassadress  sent  forth  by  Kincaid's 
to  secure  for  the  magnate  and  his  wife  the  social  rank 
which  they  had  been  too  busy  with  material  accumula- 
tion to  acquire  before. 

"  I'm  goin'  to  send  her  to  school  over  there  just  as 
long  as  they  can  teach  her  anything,"  Marsh  Kincaid 
would  say  to  his  group  of  coarse-grained  followers,  as 
Delia  passed  by  the  door  with  her  books,  on  her  way  to 
the  select  school  ;  "  which,  at  the  gait  she's  showin', 
won't  be  long,  I  take  it.  Then  she's  goin'  to  the  best 
schools  that  can  be  scared  up  at  the  East,  and  if  that 
don't  satisfy  her,  by  George,  if  there's  anything  better 
across  the  frog-pond  that  she  wants  she  shall  have  that, 
too  !  I'll  just  let  people  know  that  King  Marsh  has  the 
best  of  everything  that's  going.  I  reckon  they'll  open 
their  eyes  when  I  get  through  polishin'  her  off.  She 
hain't  bad  to  look  at  now.  Just  see  how  she  picks  her 
way  among  them  bi^-footed,  slab-sided,  soft-headed 
Skunk  Holler  young  uns,  who  have  been  raised  on  piety 
until  they're  so  tender  you   can't   look  at  'em  without 


96  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

their  wiltin'  like  cabbage-plants  in  a  June  sun.  She's 
got  sense  and  pluck,  too,  if  she  isn't  anything  but  a 
feather-weight.  Why,  she  ain't  'leven  year  old  yet,  but 
she  rides  like  a  jockey.  Took  to  it  naturally,  you  see. 
She  wasn't  a  month  old  'fore  I  took  her  in  my  arms  for 
a  canter,  and  by  the  time  she  could  toddle  she'd  laugh 
and  crow  if  I  offered  her  a  chance  to  ride.  Ever  since 
she's  been  big  enough  to  clamber  up  my  leg,  she's  been 
on  a  horse  most  every  day,  and  hasn't  no  more  fear  of 
one  than  if  she'd  been  raised  in  a  stable.  I  bought  her 
a  pony  a  year  ago — she's  the  only  gal  in  town  that's  got 
one — and  she  rides  all  over  the  country,  till  there  ain't 
a  man,  woman  or  child,  for  ten  miles  around,  that  don't 
know  King  Marsh's  gal  and  black  pony  just  as  well  as 
they  do  the  dog  in  their  own  door-yard. 

"  I'm  goin'  to  get  a  planner  for  her  the  day  she's 
twelve  years  old,  if  I  have  to  send  to  New  York  and  hire 
a  feller  by  the  day  to  teach  her  to  play  it.  Ain't  no 
need  of  that  ?  Well,  perhaps  not.  I  hain't  made  up  my 
mind  yet ;  but  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  have  no  common  key- 
thumper  teachin'  her.  Everything's  got  to  be  A  Num- 
ber I  that  she  has,  and  when  she's  finished  off,  we'll 
see  who  does  the  braggin', 

"  She's  first  chop  in  school  now.  There  ain't  one  of 
her  age  that's  up  with  her,  except  that  boy  of  Goodwin's, 
and  he's  most  a  year  older.  He's  a  smart  chap,  though 
— smart  as  a  whip,  and  knows  a  horse,  too.  Takes  after 
his  uncle  Hod  there  ;  and  Hod's  a  deal  smarter  than 
Seth,  if  he'd  only  stick  to  something,  or  go  in  with 
somebody  that  would  furnish  the  stick  for  him.  Them 
two  children's  just  as  thick  as  if  they  was  twins  ;  always 
together  when  they're  not  in  school,  until  Seth  tuk  sick 
and  the  boy  had  to  stay  out.  Deely's  mourned  about  it 
all  the  time,  and  been  up  to  see  him  'most  every  Satur- 
day all  winter.     Don't  know  what  I'll  do  if  I  have  to  sell 


Karma  or  Atavia.  97 

Seth  out.  'Spect  it'll  most  break  her  heart ;  but  busi- 
ness is  business,  and  I  guess  she'll  get  over  it." 

Whence  came  into  those  hard  lives  the  spark  of  love- 
liness which  lightened  and  sweetened  the  air  of  Kin- 
caid's?  Had  some  forgotten  stream  of  noble  blood 
flowed  for  ages  in  coarse,  ignoble  veins,  to  show  at  last 
in  the  artless  sprite  who  charmed  by  her  grace  and  won 
by  a  gentle  prescience  beyond  her  years  and  apparently 
at  war  with  her  origin  ?  It  was  merely  one  of  the 
mysteries  no  man  may  solve  ;  one  of  kindly  Nature's 
riddles,  who  delights  to  hang  jewels  in  s wines'  noses. 

It  was  a  few  days  before  the  time  set  for  the  race, 
when,  one  morning,  Horace  Goodwin  and  his  nephew 
beheld  a  most  unexpected  apparition.  The  morning's 
work  with  the  horses  was  over ;  they  had  eaten  their 
breakfast,  and  the  uncle  was  enjoying  his  pipe,  when 
around  the  corner  of  the  bluff  came  dashing  a  black 
pony,  bearing  a  slender,  bright-eyed  girl,  whose  shining 
hair  fell  in  a  cataract  of  curls  about  her  shoulders. 

Horace  Goodwin  dropped  his  pipe,  and,  with  a  mut- 
tered imprecation,  sprang  up,  rushed  into  the  sugar- 
house,  and  shut  the  door  which  led  to  the  stalls.  At 
first  they  had  been  very  careful  to  keep  this  closed,  in 
order  to  preclude  the  possibility  of  observation,  but 
they  had  been  so  undisturbed  that  they  had  grown  care- 
less. Startled  by  his  uncle's  movement,  the  boy  looked 
around,  and  despite  his  surprise  and  the  apprehension  he 
felt  for  the  consequences,  he  could  not  keep  his  face 
from  lightening  as  he  saw  the  shoit-limbed,  shaggy 
pony  cantering  easily  toward  him,  and  recognized  the 
light  figure  swaying  to  and  fro  upon  his  back,  while  the 
bright  face  above  beamed  with  exultation. 

"  Well,  I've  found  you  at  last,"  she  exclaimed,  with 
quiet  satisfaction,  as  she  reined  in  her  pony  beside  the 
nonplused  lad,  who  had  risen  from  the  log  on  which  he 


98  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

had  been  sitting,  and  now  stood  looking  up  at  her  as  if 
the  power  of  speech  had  been  suddenly  taken  from  him. 
How  absolute  is  the  rule  of  imperious  and  precocious 
girlhood  over  awkward  and  bewildered  boyhood  !  Delia 
Kincaid  knew  that  she  dazzled  Jack  Goodwin's  eyes 
as  the  sun-god  does  his  worshipers,  and  enjoyed  his 
confusion  to  the  fullest  extent. 

"  You  thought  you  could  hide  from  me,  did  you  ?"  she 
asked,  mischievously  shaking  her  whip  at  him.  "  You 
are  a  bad  boy  and  ought  to  be  punished.  Won't  you 
whip  him  for  me,  Mr.  Goodwin  ?" 

She  addressed  her  inquiry  with  artless  simplicity  to 
Uncle  Horace,  who  at  that  moment  re-appeared  from 
within  the  sugar-house,  his  brow  clothed  with  a  frown 
as  black  as  midnight. 

"  I'd  like  to  thrash — somebody,"  he  growled,  sav- 
agely. 

"  Me,  perhaps,"  laughed  the  saucy  sprite,  conscious  of 
the  annoyance  her  presence  had  given.  "  Now,  Uncle 
Horace,  I  think  you  are  real  mean  !  Just  think  how 
long  it  has  been  since  you  saw  me  ?" 

"I  could  have  stood  it  a  few  days  longer,"  he 
answered,  grimly,  though  the  cloud  on  his  brow  was 
evidently  lightening.  Jack  stood  twisting  a  button  of 
his  jacket,  as  he  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  Horace 
Goodwin  had  been  "  Uncle  Horace  "  to  the  girl  as  well 
as  to  Jack  almost  ever  since  she  could  remember.  His 
pleasant  ways  had  won  her  heart,  and  his  feats  of 
horsemanship,  together  with  the  vague  notion  that  his 
wanderings  had  covered  the  greater  part  of  the  earth's 
surface,  had  made  her  a  breathless  listener  to  the 
stories  he  told,  and  led  her  to  regard  him  with  hardly 
less  of  hero-worship  than  his  nephew  himself. 

"  Why,  Uncle  Horace  !"  exclaimed  the  girl,  reproach- 
fully, while  the  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes. 


Karma  or  Atavia.  99 

"There,  there,  Deely,"  said  the  man,  subdued  at  once 
by  her  grief  :  "  I  didn't  mean  anything.  You  mustn't 
take  on  that  way.     Won't  you  get  down  ?" 

"  No,  I  won't !"  sobbed  the  girl,  angrily  ;  "  I've  been 
sitting  here  ever  so  long,  and  you  haven't  asked  me 
before — neither  of  you.  I  thought  you  would  be  lone- 
some and  glad  to  see  me  ;  but  you  aren't — nor  Jack, 
either,"  she  answered  spitefully.  "  I'm  going  home, 
and  when  you  see  me  again — I — I — guess  you'll  be  glad  ! 
Come  Dick  !" 

She  lifted  the  reins  and  gave  a  vicious  pull  across  the 
pony's  neck,  to  indicate  that  he  was  to  turn  instantly 
and  leave  at  the  same  accelerated  pace  at  which  he  had 
arrived.  But  the  pony  had  ideas  of  his  own.  While 
she  had  been  talking,  he  had  been  sniffing  at  the  hand 
with  which  Jack  had  been  unconsciously  caressing  the 
black  muzzle.  Dick  found  himself  among  friends,  and 
had  no  notion  of  leaving  until  he  had  partaken  of  their 
hospitality.  So,  instead  of  heeding  his  mistress's 
demand,  he  put  his  nose  down,  turned  his  sharp-pointed 
ears  back  upon  his  neck,  and  shook  his  head  until  they 
were  almost  hidden  in  the  flowing  mane,  while  his 
black  eyes  shone  like  ebon  sparks  set  in  ivory  rings. 
At  the  same  time  he  gave  a  threatening  hitch  with  his 
hind  feet,  as  if  to  indicate  what  would  be  the  next  step 
in  his  remonstrance. 

"Whoa!"  exclaimed  Jack,  instinctively  reaching  his 
hand  for  the  bridle. 

Uncle  Horace  laughed  ;  he  had  no  fear  for  the  little 
lady's  safety.  He  had  given  her  too  many  lessons,  and 
knew  the  tricks  of  the  pony  too  well  for  that. 

"  You,  Dick  !"  exclaimed  the  miniature  horsewoman, 
angrily.     "Let  him  alone,  Jack  !     I'll  teach  him." 

The  slender  rawhide  which  she  carried  came  down 
with  the  full  force  of  her  arm  on  the  pony's  flank  as 


]oo  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

she  spoke,  and  his  threat  of  an  uprising  in  the  rear  was 
instantly  fulfilled.  Then  the  reins  were  tightened,  and 
the  curb  forced  his  head  up  and  his  mouth  apart.  The 
lips  curled  away  from  the  white  teeth  and  the  red  nostrils 
showed  like  coals  of  fire  in  his  black  muzzle.  Still  the 
blows  fell  upon  the  quivering  flank.  Then  he  reared 
and  pawed  the  air  until  the  black  hoofs  and  shining 
shoes  were  lifted  above  the  head  of  the  boy,  who  instinc- 
tively stepped  backward  to  avoid  them,  still  keeping  his 
eyes  anxiously  riveted  upon  the  girlish  form  in  the  sad- 
dle. The  blows  rained  faster  still  upon  the  exposed 
flank,  and  when  the  fore-feet  touched  the  earth  again, 
the  pony  wheeled  and  bolted  along  the  path  by  which 
he  had  come,  glad  to  escape  from  the  tingling  strokes. 

The  boy  darted  after  them,  but  his  uncle  called  him 
back. 

"  Never  mind,"  he  said.  "  She's  all  right  ;  the  pony 
'11  forget  what  he  got  mad  about  before  he's  gone  forty 
rods.  It's  the  way  with  them  Canucks  ;  they're  hot  and 
peppery,  and  cute  and  tricky  too,  sometimes,  but  they 
know  when  they've  got  a  boss,  and  Deely  knows  she's 
boss  of  that  one.  We've  got  something  else  to  think 
about,  now,"  he  added  seriously. 

"What's  that?"  asked  the  boy,  noting  his  uncle's 
grave  tone  and  the  look  of  concern  on  his  face. 

"  What  ?"  exclaimed  the  other  in  surprise.  "  Why, 
we've  got  to  think  where  we'll  go  and  what  we'll  do." 

"  Where  we'll  go  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  where  we'll  go,"  repeated  the  uncle,  pettishly, 
sitting  down  upon  the  big  stump,  picking  up  his  pipe 
and  filling  it  absently,  his  eyes  roaming  over  the  ground 
as  if  in  search  of  something  he  could  not  find.  "  You 
don't  s'pose  we  can  stay  here  after  Marsh  Kincaid's 
daughter's  had  a  glimpse  of  us,  do  you  ?  She's  no  fool ; 
^nd  before  an  hour  i§  past  he'll  knqw  just  where  we  are, 


Karma  or  Atavia.  loi 

and  then  there's  nine  chances  to  one  that  our  cake  '11  be 
all  dough.  I  know  Marsh  Kincaid.  If  he  thinks  the 
colt's  likely  to  beat  Gray  Eagle — and  he'll  know  there 
ain't  a  chance  for  anything  else  the  minute  he  sees  him 
at  work — why,  there  won't  be  any  colt  to  run  when  the 
day  comes." 

"  How  can  he  help  it  ?" 

"  Help  it !  Wouldn't  a  rifle-ball  out  of  the  bushes 
help  it  any  morning  or  afternoon  ?  1  guess  there 
wouldn't  be  anything  to  fear  from  the  colt  after  that," 
said  the  man  bitterly.  "  Lucky  I've  got  friends  who 
won't  go  back  on  me.  The  trouble  is  to  get  to  them 
without  leaving  any  trace." 

There  was  a  clatter  of  hoofs  around  the  corner  of 
the  bluff,  and  Horace  Goodwin  rose  uneasily,  stepped 
inside  the  cabin  and  took  down  the  rifle  that  hung  upon 
a  couple  of  wooden  hooks  above  the  doorway.  Half 
unconsciously  he  flung  the  bullet-pouch  and  powder- 
horn  over  his  shoulder  at  the  same  time.  The  region 
was  not  wild  or  lawless,  but  its  sparsely  settled  char- 
acter gave  opportunity  for  acts  of  violence  not  known  in 
more  thickly  inhabited  countries.  And  everywhere  the 
utmost  care  must  be  exercised  to  protect  the  race-horse 
in  preparation  from  his  enemies.  The  man  who  bets 
upon  a  race  is  as  unscrupulous  as  any  other  gambler, 
and  steed  and  rider  are  subject  to  many  perils.  The 
deadly  poison,  the  enervating  drug,  the  weakening  irri- 
tant may  come  to  him  in  food  or  drink  ;  may  be  sifted 
down  upon  him  from  the  loft  above  or  ejected  on  him 
as  he  passes  by  at  work.  The  smith  is  bribed  to  prick 
him  in  shoeing  ;  the  groom  to  knuckle  him  or  even  to 
drop  leaden  pellets  in  his  ears  to  make  him  frantic  with 
pain  ;  the  rider  to  vex  his  temper  or  cause  him  to  injure 
himself  by  a  misstep.  On  every  side  the  racer  is  encom- 
passed with  danger.      Eternal  vigilance  is  the    only 


I02  A  Soji  of  Old  Harry. 

safety  for  the  man  who  backs  a  favorite.  The  risk  is 
half  over  when  a  horse  comes  safely  to  the  start  and 
gets  the  word,  without  untoward  accident. 

It  is  told  of  a  horse  which  became  famous  about  the 
time  of  our  story,  that  for  weeks  before  a  great  event 
the  owner  always  locked  his  groom  and  a  bull-dog  in  the 
stall  with  him,  slept  himself  in  the  stable,  and  passed  all 
that  the  horse  ate  or  drank  into  the  stall  with  his  own 
hand,  after  making  a  personal  test  of  its  qualities.  It  is 
not  to  be  wondered  at,  therefore,  that  Horace  Goodwin, 
mindful  of  these  things,  was  somewhat  nervous  over  the 
incident  that  had  just  occurred.  If  he  had  any  impres- 
sion that  their  privacy  was  at  once  to  be  invaded  by 
others,  however,  it  was  quickly  dispelled. 

Around  the  corner  of  the  bluff  came  again  the  black 
pony,  still  at  his  utmost  speed.  The  rider  drew  him  to 
his  haunches  in  front  of  the  boy,  and  stretching  out  her 
arms  to  him  jumped  to  the  ground.  Snatching  up  her 
habit  she  ran  impulsively  to  the  man  and  said  : 

"  Don't  be  cross  at  me.  Uncle  Horace." 

She  looked  up  at  him  so  pleadingly  that  he  forgot  his 
chagrin,  stooped  and  kissed  her, 

"  Nobody  could  be  cross  at  such  a  witch  as  you, 
Deely,"  he  said. 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  she  rejoined,  turning  her  head 
archly  on  one  side.  "  I  didn't  know  but  you  were  going 
to  shoot  me." 

She  glanced  meaningly  at  the  rifle.  Uncle  Horace 
flushed  a  trifle,  but  answered  carelessly  enough  : 

"  Oh,  I  was  just  going  out  to  get  some  squirrels  for  a 
pot-pie.  I  heard  a  gobbler  up  the  hollow  this  morning, 
too." 

"  Then  I'll  stay  with  Jack  until  you  come  back,"  said 
the  girl,  turning  with  a  pleased  look  at  her  playmate. 


Karma  or  Atavia.  103 

"  I  may  be  gone  a  good  while,"  answered  Uncle 
Horace,  uneasily. 

"  Well,  I  haven't  seen  him  in  a  long  time,  and  have 
got  lots  of  things  to  tell  him.  I've  been  to  his  house 
ever  so  many  times,  but  Aunt  Susan  wouldn't  tell  me 
anything  about  him,  only  that  he  had  gone  away.  As 
if  I  didn't  know  that  as  well  as  she.  That's  the  way  I 
came  to  find  you." 

"How's  that?" 

"  Why,  you  see,  I  was  wondering  where  you  both  were 
and  what  you  were  doing,  and  I  heard  pa  and  a  good 
many  others  wondering,  too,  only  they  didn't  seem  to 
care  anything  about  Jack,  and  I  did.  They  all  thought 
you'd  gone  off  somewhere  to  get  a  horse  to  run  against 
Gray  Eagle  ;  just  as  quick  as  I  heard  them  say  it  was 
to  be  a  horse  that  had  never  run  a  race  I  knew  it  was 
Pomp,  and  that  was  the  reason  Jack  had  gone  as  well  as 
you.  I  couldn't  imagine  where  you  were,  though,  until 
I  thought  of  *  Number  Two,'  and  then  of  the  sugar- 
bush  right  here  beside  it.  I  knew  Jack  used  to  ride 
the  colt  around  the  pasture  and  thought  this  would  be 
just  the  nicest  place  in  the  world  to  train  him.  So  I 
thought  I'd  come  and  see.  Isn't  it  lovely  here  ?"  she 
said,  taking  a  general  survey  of  her  surroundings.  Jack 
was  petting  the  pony  and  gazing  at  her  with  unmistak- 
able delight. 

"  Where  do  you  keep  him  ?  In  there  ?"  pointing  to 
the  stable.  "  Can't  I  see  him  ?  Oh,  I'm  sure  he'll  win. 
I've  got  ever  so  many  bets  on  him." 

"  You  have  ?" 

"  Well — on  the  horse  you  are  going  to  run.  Of  course 
I  know  it's  Pomp,  just  as  well  as  I  know  anything. 
Please  let  me  see  him." 

"  How. did  you  come  here  ?"  asked  Uncle  Horace,  dis- 
regarding her  appeal. 


I04  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

"  As  if  you  didn't  know.  Uncle  Horace,  aren't  you 
getting  a  little  loony  ?     Didn't  you  see  I  rode  Dick  ?" 

"  I  mean  by  what  road  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  come  by  any  road  at  all,"  she  answered, 
gayly.  "  I  knew  you  didn't  want  anybody  to  suspect 
you  were  here,  so  I  just  rode  up  Matthews's  lane  until  I 
came  to  the  woods,  and  then  picked  my  way  along 
through  them." 

"  You  must  have  found  it  pretty  rough," 

'*  Not  so  very,"  she  answered  ruefully,  looking  down 
at  her  habit,  which  was  plentifully  decorated  with  green 
burs.  The  others  laughed  at  her  brave  denial  of  diffi- 
culty, in  the  face  of  such  evidence.  "  There  were  one 
or  two  fences  Dick  had  a  hard  time  getting  over,"  she 
continued.  "  But  I'm  so  glad  I  came.  Have  you  had  a 
good  time  here  in  the  woods.  Jack  ?" 

"  Pretty  good,"  answered  the  boy,  with  some  embar- 
rassment. 

**  Oh,  it  must  be  nice  !"  the  little  lady  exclaimed,  "  I 
wish  I  was  a  boy — but  where  is  Pomp  ?  I  wanted  to  see 
him  most  as  bad  as  I  did  you  ?" 

The  lad's  face  flushed  with  pleasure. 

"There  isn't  any  *Pomp '  now,  Deely  !"  he  answered, 
jauntily. 

"  Isn't  any  Pomp  ?    What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  We've  given  him  a  new  name." 

"  What  for  ?" 

"  Uncle  Horace  thought  *  Pomp '  wasn't  fine  enough 
for  a  horse  that  was  going  to  run  a  real  sure-enough 
race," 

"  What  do  you  call  him  now  ?" 

"  I  wanted  to  call  him  Curtius,  but  Uncle  Horace 
didn't  like  it,  so  we  named  him  Belmont's  Abdallah." 

"  'Abdallah  ?'  "  repeated  the  girl,  sounding  the  word 
carefully,      **  *  Abdallah  !'    That's  a  pretty  name  ;  but 


Karma  or  Atavia.  105 

why  do  you  call  him  Belmont's  Abdallah  ?  Have  you 
sold  him  ?    Who  is  Belmont  ?" 

"  You'll  have  to  ask  Uncle  Horace." 

"  Who  is  he,  Uncle  Horace  ?" 

"  I'm  sure  I  couldn't  tell  you,"  answered  the  young 
man,  who  was  leaning  against  the  cabin-wall,  still  hold- 
ing his  gun. 

"  Then  why  did  you  call  him  that .?" 

"  Because — well,  because  it's  a  respectable  name  for  a 
horse  to  have,"  smiling. 

"  So  there  wouldn't  anybody  know  him  ?"  she  asked 
shrewdly. 

"  Well,  that  was  one  reason,"  Uncle  Horace  confessed. 

"  I  thought  so,"  gayly.     "  I  hope  he'll  win." 

"  You  do  ?" 

"  Of  course,"  with  a  gay  laugh  at  his  surprise.  "  Did 
you  think  I  was  on  the  other  side  ?" 

"  I  s'posed  you'd  back  the  Gray  Eagle." 

"  Well,  I  don't.  I  told  pa,  as  soon  as  I  thought  about 
— about — well,  about  the  colt — I  can't  remember  his  new 
name — that  he'd  be  beat,  and  he'd  better  back  down. 
I've  seen  Pomp  run  in  *  Number  Two.'" 

"  He  didn't  take  your  advice  ?" 

"  No  ;  and  I  made  a  bet  with  him  that  he'd  lose. 
I've  got  four  or  five  other  bets,  too.  You  see,  every- 
body's laying  on  the  Gray  Eagle,  because  he's  won  so 
many  races,  but  I  don't  believe  in  him  much.  Ma  says 
she  hopes  pa'll  lose,  and  that'll  stop  him  from  throwing 
away  money  on  horses." 

*'  Stop  him  !"  exclaimed  Uncle  Horace,  throwing  back 
his  head  and  laughing  in  a  way  to  wake  the  echoes. 

"That's  what  she  said,"  continued  the  child,  evidently 
abashed  at  the  effect  of  her  revelation  ;  "  and  I  guess  it 
will.  It  appears  to  take  a  good  deal  to  get  the  old 
Eagle  ready,  anyway  ;  they've  had  to  burn  his  legs." 


io6  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

"  Fire  him,  you  mean  ?" 

"  Well,  isn't  that  burning  ?" 

"  Of  course.     Is  he  lame  ?" 

*' Well — he  was,"  sagely,  **  But  he  does  get  over  the 
ground  when  he's  once  limbered  up,"  she  added, 
doubtfully.  "  Pa  says  it'll  take  a  lively  nag  to  get  away 
with  him  ;  and  if  you  should  see  him  run  once,  you'd 
think  so," 

"  There  ain't  any  doubt  about  that,  I  suppose  you 
told  your  father  your  suspicions  about — about  the  colt  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  didn't.  Didn't  I  say  I  wanted  you  to  win  ? 
Ma  said  she  wishes  pa  would  get  beat  so  bad  he 
wouldn't  dare  look  a  horse  in  the  face  for  the  rest  of  his 
life  ;  it  would  be  the  best  thing  that  could  happen  to 
■  him,  and  if  he  must  lose,  she'd  rather  you  won  his  money 
than  any  one  else,  for  you'll  help  Jack's  father  with  it," 

"  That's  a  fact,  little  one,"  exclaimed  the  uncle, 
warmly. 

"Oh,  I  know  some  things,  if  I  am  little,"  was  the  arch 
reply. 

Uncle  Horace  turned,  and  put  his  gun  back  on  the 
hooks  inside  the  cabin-door. 

"  I  thought  you  were  going  out  to  shoot  squirrels  ?" 

'*  I  guess  I'd  better  wait  and  get  dinner." 

*'  Oh,  do  ;  and  I'll  stay  and  eat  it  with  you." 

*'  Won't  your  folks  be  uneasy  if  you  don't  come 
home  ?" 

*'  I  always  stay  to  dinner  when  I  go  to  Aunt  Susan's  ; 
don't  I,  Jack  ?" 

**  Of  course — that  is — most  always,"  answered  the 
boy,  doubtful  whether  he  ought  to  favor  or  discourage 
her  project, 

Horace  Goodwin  was  greatly  puzzled  by  the  turn 
affairs  had  taken,  but  concluded  that  it  was  better  to 
trust   this   child,  wise  beyond  her  years   and  yet   so 


Karma  or  Atavia.  107 

apparently  simple  and  transparent,  than  to  show  any 
suspicion  of  her.  If  she  was  a  spy,  she  already  knew 
all  that  could  be  of  detriment  to  them,  and  it  might  be 
well  to  have  her  carry  away  an  impression  of  confidence 
on  their  part  rather  than  of  doubt.  Next^  to  beating 
the  Gray  Eagle  out  and  out,  the  best  "thing  for  the  colt 
would  be  to  have  that  horse  pay  forfeit  to  him.  So  he 
said,  cheerfully  : 

"  Give  the  pony  a  bait.  Jack,  and  bring  the  colt  out 
and  let  the  young  lady  look  him  over  while  I  set  about 
dinner.  We  don't  often  have  company,  you  know.  You 
come  at  the  wrong  time  to  see  him  move,  Deely,"  he 
added,  with  a  meaning  look  at  the  boy. 

The  girl's  surprise  and  delight  at  the  condition  and 
beauty  of  the  colt,  with  which  she  had  been  acquainted' 
since  he  was  a  foal,  was  unbounded. 

When  she  had  concluded  her  inspection  and  the  newly 
christened  nag  had  been  returned  to  his  stall,  the  boy 
and  girl  wandered  up  the  little  valley  to  visit  some  of 
the  quiet  nooks  where  the  lad  had  been  accustomed  to 
pass  his  unoccupied  hours  during  their  long  seclusion. 

"  Oh,  Jack !"  she  exclaimed  in  rapture,  when  they 
reached  a  pretty  bower  made  by  a  leafy  dogwood  which 
had  grown  up  among  the  branches  of  a  fallen  forest 
monarch  and  umbel-like  shut  out  the  light  on  every 
side.  A  broken  limb  of  the  great  tree  made  a  conven- 
ient seat,  wherein  she  was  installed.  The  giant  trunk 
rose  behind  her,  and  the  boy  stood  in  the  little  open 
space  before  her,  leaning  against  the  bent  trunk  of  the 
dogwood.     It  was  his  favorite  haunt. 

"  Oh,  Jack,"  she  repeated,  "  isn't  this  nice  ?" 

"  It's  most  like  being  in  a  house,  isn't  it  ?"  he  said, 
pleased  with  her  approval. 

"  Yes,  only  nicer.  What  good  times  you  must  have 
here.     I  do  hope  you'll  win  !" 


io8  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

Her  face  beamed  with  unconcealed  pleasure. 

"  You  want  to  win  your  bets  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  care  for  them,  Jack  !"  she  exclaimed 
with  gleeful  abandon.  "  I  only  made  them  because  I 
was  sure  it  was  your  colt  that  was  going-  to  run." 

"We  thought  perhaps  you  were  on  the  other  side." 

"  Uncle  Horace  thought  so  ;  you  didn't,"  she  said, 
positively. 

"  I  s'posed  of  course,  you'd — "  stammered  the  lad. 

"  No  you  didn't ;  don't  you  ever  say  so  !" 

She  threatened  him  with  upraised  finger.  The  boy 
laughed.  It  was  very  pleasant  to  have  her  play  the 
tyrant. 

"  It  was  natural  you  should  want  your  father  to  win," 
he  protested. 

*'  Oh,  pa's  all  right,"  she  said,  with  a  sublime  confi- 
dence in  her  father's  ability  to  care  for  himself.  "  He 
says  he  stands  to  make  something  out  of  the  race, 
whether  he  wins  or  loses.  I  guess  he's  been  betting  on 
the  other  side,"  she  added,  sagely. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  boy,  wondering  how  she  had 
learned  so  much.  Betting  was  almost  as  much  a 
mystery  to  him  as  the  hereafter.  The  son  of  Seth 
Goodwin  had  known  a  different  environment  from  that 
of  King  Marsh's  daughter. 

"  Nor  I ;  I  only  guess.  But  he  says  if  your  uncle 
Horace  wins  the  race,  he'll  make  enough  to  pay  off  the 
mortgage  and  send  you  to  college,  too." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  to  college,"  said  the  boy,  dog- 
gedly. 

"  But  you  must,"  asserted  the  girl. 

"  I  don't  see  why." 

"Because,  if  you  don't,"  answered  the  little  lady, 
smoothing  her  gown  over  her  knees  as  she  spoke,  "  I 
shall  get  ahead  of  you.     You  know  I  am  going  to  school 


Karma  or  Atavia,  109 

— oh,  ever  so  many  years — until  I  learn  as  much  as  I 
can." 

"  S'pose  you  do  ?" 

"  Why,  I  couldn't  marry  you  if  you  didn't  know  as 
much  as  I." 

The  child  spoke  as  if  their  marriage  was  as  much  a 
matter  of  course  as  any  every-day  event. 

"  Will  you  marry  me  if  I  go  to  college,  Deely  ?" 

"  Why,  of  course." 

"  Really  and  truly  ?" 

"  Really  and  truly.  You  don't  think  I'd  marry  any- 
body else,  do  you  ?" 

There  was  a  quaver  of  reproachful  protest  in  her 
voice. 

**  S'pose  your  folks  wouldn't  let  you  ?" 

"  I'd  run  away." 

"  They  might  make  you  marry  somebody  else  while 
I  was  gone  !" 

'•Then  I'd  run  away  from  him  when  you  came 
back." 

"  And  will  you  be  my  wife  always  ?"  asked  the  boy, 
incredulously. 

"  Of  course.  Ain't  that  what  they  promise,  *  forever 
and  ever,  amen  ?'  I've  heard  people  married  lots  of 
times.     Haven't  you  ever  seen  a  wedding  ?" 

The  boy  shook  his  head. 

"  Well,"  said  the  girl,  "  the  next  time  anybody  gets 
married  at  our  house,  I'll  let  you  know — if  I  have  time, 
that  is — they're  most  always  in  an  awful  hurry.  You 
ought  to  see  a  wedding,"  she  added,  sagely,  "so's  to 
know  how.  You'll  have  to  promise  to  love  me  always, 
you  know,  and  take  good  care  of  me,  too." 

**  Oh,  I'll  do  that,"  said  the  boy,  readily.  "  I  always 
did  think  you  were  the  nicest  girl  that  ever  lived." 

He  had  edged  towards  her  while  they  talked,  and 


no  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

finally  sat  down  beside  her.  Then  he  put  his  arm  about 
her  neck  and  kissed  her,  shyly. 

"  But  you'll  have  to  go  to  colleg-e,"  she  insisted, 
diplomatically  drawing  herself  backward,  as  if  to  avoid 
his  advances. 

"  I'll  do  that,  too,"  said  the  lad  recklessly,  kissing  her 
again. 

"  Oh,  Jack,  how  good  you  are !"  she  exclaimed, 
throwing  off  all  reserve,  now  that  her  point  was  gained, 
flinging  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  putting  up  her 
sweet  child-mouth  to  kiss  and  be  kissed  as  much  as  he 
might  desire. 

"  Won't  it  be  nice  ?"  she  sighed,  when  their  caresses 
began  to  pall. 

"  What  ?"  asked  the  duller-witted  boy,  from  whom 
life's  supremest  rapture  was  yet  farther  away  than  from 
the  prescient  girl-nature,  which  already  felt  its  prompt- 
ings. 

"  Oh,  just  to  love  each  other  always — always,"  she 
repeated  ;  and  then,  more  solemnly — "  forever  and  ever, 
amen." 

Her  tone  awed  the  boy,  and  they  sat  silent,  her  head 
resting  on  his  shoulder  and  her  bright  tresses  flecking 
his  brown  "  warm-us."  It  was  the  old,  old  story  on  the 
lips  of  babes.  He  was  poor  and  sturdy  ;  she,  rich  and 
wordly-wise  for  her  years,  but  tender  and  clinging  as 
the  woman-nature  always  is. 

It  was  an  odd  betrothal,  with  the  summer  woods  and 
babbling  brook  for  witnesses.  There  was  no  false 
modesty  or  shame-facedness  about  it.  The  young  souls 
had  felt  no  touch  of  passion.  It  was  merely  the  natural 
result  of  that  instinctive  pleasure  in  each  other  which 
had  grown  out  of  comradeship.  The  boy  never  forgot 
it.  From  that  hour  he  counted  himself  bound  as  if  by 
the    marriage   vow.     From   that   day   forth  he  never 


Kartna  or  Atavia.  1 1 1 

thought  of  himself  alone.  His  plans  and  dreams 
included  always  the  golden-haired  girl  whose  great 
earnest  eyes  met  his  then  with  such  unquestioning 
faith. 

"  Jack,"  she  said,  suddenly,  releasing  herself  from 
his  embrace  and  turning  on  him  a  look  of  serious  con- 
cern, "  who's  going  to  ride  the  colt  ?" 

"  Why,  I  am  ;  who  did  you  think  ?" 

"  I  didn't  know  but — but  Uncle  Horace  might." 

"  He's  too  heavy." 

"You  might  get  somebody,  then — a  jockey,  you 
know." 

"  The  colt'll  do  more  for  me  than  for  any  one  else." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't.  Jack.     Aren't  you  afraid  ?" 

The  light  had  gone  out  of  her  eyes. 

"  There  will  be  so  many  people  there,"  she  added, 
hesitantly. 

"  I  shan't  see  any  of  them,"  confidently  ;  "  nothing 
but  the  horse — and  the  track." 

"  But  something  might — might  happen  to  you." 

"  What  ?"  in  surprise. 

"  Well,  he  might  bolt,  or—" 

"  Not  with  me." 

"  But  some  one  might — might  get  in  the  way,  you 
know." 

She  cast  down  her  eyes  as  she  spoke. 

"  Oh,  no  fear  of  that  ;  they'll  keep  the  track  clear." 

"  But  it's  a  mile  long." 

'*  Well,  there'll  be  enough  there  to  watch  it,"  he  con- 
tinued, carelessly. 

The  girl  sighed. 

"  Do  you  ever  go — go  to — to  the  house,  Jack  ?"  she 
asked,  at  length,  her  eyes  still  downcast. 

"  Sometimes,"  answered  the  boy,  cautiously. 

'*  I  wouldn't — any  more,  I  mean." 


112  A  Sou  of  Old  Harry. 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"  Somebody — might — might  see  you." 

""  No  danger  of  that  ;  it's  always  dark  when  we  go." 

"  But  somebody  might  be  watching," 

"  What  for  ?" 

"  Well,  they  might  want  to  know — don't  you  see  ?" 

Her  head  was  bent  down  and  her  cheeks  burned. 

"  Is  anybody  watching  for  us,  Deely  ?" 

The  bent  head  fell  lower. 

"  And  that  is  the  reason  you  came  here  ?" 

Another  nod.  The  boy  saw  a  tear  fall  upon  the  little 
hands  which  worked  nervously  in  her  lap. 

"  I  understand,"  he  said,  gravely.  He  remembered 
what  his  uncle  had  said  about  the  danger  of  discovery. 

"  I — I  didn't  want  to  tell  Uncle  Horace,"  sobbed  the 
girl. 

"  He  sha'n't  ever  know,"  answered  the  boy,  manfully. 

"You  will  be  careful,  won't  you,  Jack?"  she  pleaded. 

"  There  won't  nothing  happen  to  me,  Deely ;  don't 
you  be  afraid,"  he  said,  stoutly,  though  his  lips  were 
white  and  his  voice  trembled  a  little.  "  I'm  going  to 
win  that  race." 

The  boy  had  suddenly  grown  to  be  a  man.  The 
nature  which  love  could  not  awaken,  danger  and  resolu- 
tion had  suddenly  ripened. 

"I believe  you  will,"  said  the  girl,  looking  at  him 
admiringly.  The  woman-nature  pays  tribute  always  to 
courage. 

The  uncle  whistled  on  his  fingers  to  call  them  to  din- 
ner.    They  returned  hand  in  hand. 

"  For  all  the  world  like  a  pair  of  old  married  folks," 
he  said  to  himself,  as  they  came  near  enough  to  enable 
him  to  see  their  grave  faces.  "  She's  safe  ;  she  won't  blab 
on  him.  That's  often  the  way  with  girls.  She's  older 
an'  truer'n  she's  likely  to  be  half  a  dozen  years  from  now." 


CHAPTER   VII. 

SCREENING     THE     COVEY. 

The  visit  of  Kincaid's  daughter  resulted  in  renewed 
precaution  to  secure  privacy  and  divert  suspicion  in 
regard  to  the  training-camp.  From  that  time  on,  Chris 
Barclay  spent  the  night  there,  bringing  his  dog  Watch, 
who  was  better  than  a  dozen  sentinels.  He  passed  the 
word  to  Horace  Goodwin's  friends,  also,  that  they  should 
bestir  themselves  to  secure  the  attendance  of  people 
who  would  see  to  it  that  there  was  fair  play  on  the  day 
of  the  race. 

It  was  the  almost  universal  opinion  that  Horace  Good- 
win had  undertaken  a  task  quite  impossible  to  perform. 
Every  horse  known  to  possess  racing  qualities  in  any  of 
the  adjoining  counties  had  been  canvassed  by  more  than 
one  jury  of  volunteer  experts,  and  the  result  had  been  a 
practically  unanimous  concensus  of  opinion  that  no 
horse  having  the  requisite  conditions  was  to  be  found, 
nor,  indeed,  one  of  any  sort  capable  of  vanquishing  the 
Gray  Eagle.  But  the  most  puzzling  fact  of  all  was  that 
not  one  of  those  most  likely  to  succeed  was  in  training. 
Under  the  circumstances,  it  was  not  strange  that  a 
report  should  obtain  currency  that  Horace  Goodwin  had 
abandoned  the  attempt  and  gone  East  to  avoid  the 
ridicule  certain  to  attend  upon  a  failure  to  show 
that  he   had  reasonable  ground  for  the  boast  he  had 


114  A  Sou  of  Old  Harry. 

made.  This  rumor  had  gained  strength  from  a  repeated 
offer  of  Kincaid  to  bet  that  Horace  Goodwin  would 
not  appear,  nor  any  horse  be  entered  to  contest  the 
race  with  the  Gray  Eagle  on  the  day  named, 

Horace  Goodwin's  friends,  who  up  to  this  time  had 
seemed  very  apathetic,  suddenly  developed  an  unusual 
activity.  Van  Wyck  posted  a  notice  at  every  cross- 
roads for  miles  around  that  he  was  authorized  by 
responsible  parties  to  take  bets  in  any  sum  from  ten 
cents  up  to  a  thousand  dollars  that  Horace  Goodwin 
would  appear  and  attempt  bona  fide  to  make  good  his 
challenge.  Said  bets  to  be  conditioned  only  "  that 
the  said  Goodwin  and  the  horse  he  now  has  in  train- 
ing shall  be  alive  on  the  third  day  of  July  next." 
This  authoritative  challenge  not  only  increased  the 
popular  excitement  regarding  the  race,  but  tended  to 
cast  ridicule  upon  Kincaid 's  pretensions.  It  confirmed 
also  the  idea  that  Goodwin  was  training  at  some 
remote  point.  This  was  further  strengthened  by  the 
assurance  of  a  gentleman  of  undoubted  character, 
living  in  an  adjoining  county,  but  more  than  fifty  miles 
to  the  eastward  of  Ortonville,  that  he  had "  recently 
seen  Mr.  Horace  Goodwin  and  received  his  personal 
assurance  that  he  would  be  present  on  the  day  set  for 
the  race,  and  confidently  expected  to  produce  a  horse 
answering  all  the  conditions  imposed  and  able  to  beat 
not  only  Gray  Eagle  but  any  horse  he  had  ever  run 
against."  As  this  included  some  of  the  most  famous 
horses  of  the  day,  the  statement  greatly  enhanced  the 
interest  in  the  event. 

The  assurance  that  the  race  would  positively  come  off 
brought  with  it  a  general  conviction  that  no  event  of 
like  importance  had  ever  occurred  in  that  region. 
People  began  to  speak  of  it  as  the  "  Great  Race,"  by 
which  name  it  is  still  referred  to  by  dwellers  in  that 


Screening  the  Covey.  1 1 5 

vicinity.  With  this  came  also  the  notion  that  an  occa- 
sion of  such  importance  required  some  unusual  prep- 
aration for  its  due  and  orderly  observance.  At  the 
"  Quarterly  Meeting  "  of  the  circuit  including  Ortonville, 
held  two  weeks  before  the  race,  notice  was  circulated 
that  there  would  be  a  meeting  the  next  Monday  week 
to  put  the  track  in  order  and  make  other  arrangements 
for  the  race.  Everybody  was  invited  to  attend  and 
bring  such  tools  as  might  be  useful  in  the  work.  No 
one  objected  to  such  notice  being  given  at  a  religious 
meeting,  and  a  good  many  worthy  people  openly 
approved  the  project,  being  convinced  that  "  Brother  " 
Goodwin,  whose  misfortunes  were  as  well  known  as  his 
character  was  respected,  was  likely  to  be  greatly  bene- 
fited by  his  brother's  success. 

Perhaps  the  general  sentiment  was  best  expressed  by 
one  of  the  stewards,  who  said  : 

"  I  don't  approve  of  horse-racing,  as  a  rule,  though 
perhaps  it's  the  things  that  go  with  it  more'n  the  thing 
itself  that  I  object  to  ;  but  if  Hod  Goodwin  can't  see  any 
other  way  to  help  his  brother  out  of  a  tight  place — and  I 
don't  see  that  there  is  any  other  way — I  don't  think  we 
ought  to  let  his  good  intentions  fail  for  want  of  a  fair 
chance.  As  I'm  an  *  official  member,'  very  probably  I 
may  not  go  to  the  race,  but  I  don't  see  any  harm  in 
helping  the  folks  that  live  along  the  '  measured  mile ' 
to  *  mend  their  ways  '  a  little  about  this  time.  So,  I 
guess  I'll  go  to  the  *  bee  '  and  let  the  boys  go  to  the  race 
— unless  I  find  it  necessary  to  go  along  to  look  after 
them,  then,  too," 

The  meeting  to  prepare  the  track  was  of  unexpected 
proportions.  Before  nine  o'clock  more  than  five  hun- 
dred men  had  assembled,  armed  with  picks,  shovels, 
hoes  and  other  implements,  Kincaid  sent  two  teams 
with  a  plow  and  a  roller.     Chris  Barclay  was  there  with 


1 1 6  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

a  new  smoother  of  his  own  invention  with  backward 
curving  knife-edged  teeth,  which  was  looked  upon  at 
first  with  derision,  but  which  soon  justified  itself  by  its 
execution,  A  man  was  chosen  by  acclamation  to  super- 
intend the  work,  who,  with  that  ready  assumption  of 
delegated  authority  which  our  American  life  has  made 
habitual,  at  once  appointed  his  assistants  and  began 
issuing  orders.  In  twenty  minutes  every  man  was  at 
work,  the  overseer  being  the  only  one  who  did  not 
wield  some  implement,  he  riding  up  and  down  the  line 
and  giving  directions,  so  as  to  secure  uniformity  and 
thoroughness  of  work. 

It  was  a  jolly  gathering.  The  men  worked  as  earn- 
estly as  though  in  their  own  cornfields — some  of  them 
more  industriously.  The  air  was  full  of  rough  jests 
and  loud  laughter.  The  horses  chafed  at  the  unusual 
excitement.  The  drivers  cracked  their  whips,  shouted 
to  their  teams  and  took  part  also  in  the  general  jollity. 
The  boys  brought  water  for  the  men  to  drink  from  the 
wells  along  the  route,  in  buckets  with  tin  dippers  float- 
ing in  them.  Nearly  all  were  clothed  in  homespun  ; 
many  of  them  were  barefoot.  They  wore  palm-leaf 
hats,  in  the  crowns  of  which  many  carried  gaudily  printed 
handkerchiefs.  They  were  a  wholesome,  manly  crowd, 
and  their  wit,  if  coarse,  was  seldom  malicious. 

There  were  not  many  people  living  along  the 
"  measured  mile — "only  three  or  four  families — but 
they  all  felt  honored  by  the  great  event  which  was  to 
occur  at  their  very  doors,  and  gladly  invited  as  many  of 
the  workers  as  they  could  accommodate  to  dinner.  The 
limit  of  their  capacity  to  "  accommodate"  was  the  ability 
of  the  "  women  folks  "  to  cook  and  serve.  Many  of  the 
men  had  brought  their  wives,  who  "  turned  in  "  and 
«  helped  in  this  service. 

It  was  expected  that  Horace  Goodwin  would  make  his 


Screening  the   Covey,  117 

appearance  during  the  day,  but  he  did  not.  His  brother 
Seth,  sitting  in  his  great  arm-chair  in  the  shade  of  a 
couple  of  giant  elms  which  had  somehow  escaped  the 
woodman's  ax,  and  waved  congratulatory  greetings  to 
each  other  standing  at  something  more  than  their 
limbs'  length  apart,  in  front  of  his  house,  gazed  com- 
posedly upon  the  busy  scene,  answered  pleasantly  the 
greetings  and  good  wishes  of  his  friends,  and  when 
asked  about  his  brother,  replied,  without  hesitation,  that 
he  had  not  seen  him  for  more  than  a  month.  No  one 
doubted  his  word.  The  man  selected  to  supervise  the 
repairs  of  the  track  consulted  him  in  regard  to  arrange- 
ments for  the  race.  It  was  agreed  that  there  should  be 
a  strong  force  of  special  officers  to  preserve  order,  and 
that  no  liquor  should  be  sold  within  half  a  mile  of  the 
grounds.  These  and  other  necessary  regulations  were 
to  be  submitted  to  a  meeting  to  be  held  after  the  work 
was  done,  at  the  south  end  of  the  course.  That  the 
people  of  the  vicinage  might  not  have  a  legal  right  to 
make  such  proscriptive  regulations  did  not  seem  to 
occur  to  any  one. 

When  the  hour  of  noon  arrived,  Susan  Goodwin, 
standing  on  the  horse-block  beside  the  big  front  gate, 
blew  a  blast  which  was  heard  the  whole  length  of  the 
"measured  mile,"  on  a  conch-shell,  brought  from  the 
East  among  her  household  treasures,  which  had  been  in 
the  family  for  at  least  three  generations,  having  neatly 
pricked  on  its  inner  surface  the  initials  of  three  house- 
wives, who  had  successively  joined  their  fortunes  with 
the  Goodwin  stock.  It  was  answered  by  the  dinner- 
horns  of  all  the  neighborhood.  The  work  ceased 
almost  instantly.  The  horses  instinctively  stood  still  in 
their  tracks  on  hearing  the  accustomed  call.  The  men 
shouldered  each  the  implement  with  which  he  had  been 
working,  and  marching  to  the  roadside,  hung  it  on  the 


1 1  8  A  Son  of  Old  Harry,  ' 

high  "  stake  and  rider"  fence.  Delia  Kincaid,  on  her 
pony,  ran  a  race  with  the  overseer  down  the  half-fin- 
ished track.  The  men  stood  aside  and  cheered  as 
they  passed. 

Some  had  brought  their  lunches  and  gathered  in 
the  orchard  opposite  Seth  Goodwin's  house,  or  sat 
around  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees  and  fence -corners  or 
beneath  their  wagons,  to  eat  them.  Others  came  to 
partake  of  the  provisions  set  forth  by  the  Goodwins — 
especially  the  barrel  of  hard  cider,  which  flanked  the 
.  tables  in  the  front  yard.  Many  came  to  wash  their 
hands  and  faces  at  the  big  trough  by  the  well,  whose 
stone-laden  sweep  had  seldom  made  so  many  journeys 
in  a  day. 

As  soon  as  they  began  to  eat,  the  conversation  turned 
upon  the  weather.  Men  wiped  their  sweaty  faces, 
pushed  back  the  damp  hair  from  their  foreheads,  and 
agreed  that  it  was  hot.  The  thermometer  had  not  yet 
become  an  instrument  of  universal  discomfort,  and  none 
knew  that  on  the  "measured  mile  "  it  would  have  regis- 
tered "  ninety  in  the  shade  "  that  sultry  June  day.  The 
general  hope  was  expressed  that  it  would  be  cooler  on 
the  day  of  the  race,  though  some  knowing  ones  ven- 
tured the  statement  that  the  best  time  had  generally 
been  made  on  hot  days.  A  good  many  of  Kincaid's 
followers  offered  to  lay  odds  on  the  Gray  Eagle,  but 
it  was  not  a  betting  crowd.  They  were  interested  in 
the  race,  willing  to  give  lime  and  labor  to  prepare 
for  it  ;  but  they  had  no  notion  of  staking  money  on 
the  result.  The  boys  bet  jack-knives  and  other  trink- 
ets, and  the  women  made  foolish  little  wagers  with 
each  other  ;  but  the  men  generally  contented  themselves 
with  opinions  and  arguments.  Their  time  for  betting 
had  not  arrived,  since  each  wished  to  back  his  judgment 
rather  than  his  inclination. 


Screening  the  Covey.  1 1 9 

The  "  State  road,"  of  which  the  **  measured  mile  " 
was  a  part,  was  a  notable  highway.  It  had  been  a 
turnpike  and  the  law  had  prescribed  its  dimensions — "  a 
rod  wide,  clear  of  stumps  and  runners  on  each  side  ; 
the  middle  well  piked  up,  thirty-two  feet  between  the 
outer  edges  of  the  ditches  on  each  side  " — constituting 
two  rods  of  border  and  two  of  roadway.  The  turfy 
borders  were  thus  reserved  for  the  accommodation  of 
herds  of  stock,  which  were  thereby  enabled  to  pass 
along  the  road  without  interrupting  the  stream  of 
wagons  moving  each  way.  The  "  measured  mile  "  was 
an  almost  perfect  level,  that  lay  between  two  sharp 
depressions  which  cut  the  line  of  the  great  highway,  and 
was  marked  at  one  end  by  a  great  beech,  just  in  front  of 
Seth  Goodwin's  house,  and  at  the  other  by  a  big  chest- 
nut, a  furlong  to  the  southward  of  Chris  Barclay's  resi- 
dence, the  lines  which  marked  the  start  and  the  finish 
being  attached  to  staples  on  the  north  side  of  the  beech 
and  the  south  side  of  the  chestnut,  making  a  course, 
according  to  Squire  Kendall's  chain,  of  just  one  mile, 
three  links  and  a  half.  It  was  the  best  piece  of  road  in 
the  whole  region,  but  there  were  ruts  and  holes  and 
sticks  and  stones  here  and  there  along  its  extent  when 
the  work  of  preparation  began.  Many  willing  hands 
soon  changed  its  appearance,  and  the  brown,  springy 
surface  being  inspected  by  the  overseer  at  four  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  was  pronounced  as  good  a  track  as  any 
horse  had  ever  struck  a  hoof  on,  though  even  then  its 
condition  was  far  enough  from  the  modem  race-course 
standard. 

The  proposed  meeting  was  then  held.  The  man  who 
had  been  chosen  to  supervise  the  work,  presided,  stand- 
ing on  a  work-bench  under  the  great  beech.  He  was 
unanimously  elected  marshal  for  the  day  of  the  race, 
and  empowered  to  choose  his  assistants.     The  rules  he 


I20  A  Sou  of  Old  Harry. 

suggested  were  adopted,  and  the  sheriff  of  the  county 
announced  that  he  would  make  the  marshal  and  his 
assistants  special  deputies  for  that  day,  so  as  to  secure 
good  order  and  fair  play.  The  race  was  ordered  to 
take  place  between  eleven  o'clock  and  three,  so  as  to 
give  time  for  people  to  return  home  before  dark,  and 
the  marshal  was  authorized  to  stop  all  travel  on  the 
road  during  such  time  as  might  be  necessary,  and  to 
make  rules  for  the  orderly  egress  of  the  crowd  from  the 
track  after  the  race  was  over — a  very  necessary  provi- 
sion where  each  one  was  expected  to  come  in  his  own 
vehicle. 

After  this  spontaneous  exhibition  of  the  self-govern- 
ing instinct  of  the  American  people,  the  crowd  was 
about  to  disperse  when  Kincaid's  groom  appeared, 
mounted  on  Gray  Eagle,  He  was  a  splendid  horse,  of 
that  peculiar  iron-gray  which  so  often  results  from  a 
comminglmg  of  the  blood  of  Sir  Archy  and  that  Pilot 
stock  so  abundant  in  the  Tennessee  and  Virginia  moun- 
tains. A  flaming  eye  and  lordly  crest,  edged  with  flowing 
silver,  gave  him  a  peculiarly  impressive  aspect,  while  a 
tail,  as  white  as  that  of  the  prophet's  mare,  proudly 
upreared  in  moments  of  excitement,  had  often  flashed 
a  baleful  meteor  in  the  eyes  of  defeated  competitors. 
He  was  given  an  easy  spurt  over  the  soft  track  to  the 
half-mile  post  and  back,  for  the  entertainment  of  the 
crowd,  and  Marshall  Kincaid  could  not  restrain  a  glow 
of  satisfaction  as  he  saw  the  depressing  effect  of  the 
exhibition  produced  upon  the  friends  of  Horace  Good- 
win, who  were  somewhat  comforted,  however,  by  the 
confident,  half-contemptuous  words  of  Seth  : 

"  He's  a  good  horse,  Mr.  Kincaid.  If  it  was  a  case  of 
heads  and  tails  he'd  be  pretty  sure  to  win  ;  but  he'll 
meet  a  horse  next  Tuesday  week  that  hasn't  much  of 


Screening  the   Covey.  121 

an  eye  for  flax,  but  will  busy  himself  with  eating  up  the 
ground  instead  of  flourishing  his  tail." 

He  smiled  with  calm  assurance  as  he  spoke. 

"  Seth's  a  Goodwin,  and  knows  a  horse  if  he  doesn't 
race,"  was  the  general  verdict. 

"  Hurrah  for  the  Gray  Eagle  !"  shouted  one  of  Kin- 
caid's  followers. 

"  Hurrah  for  Belmont's  Abdallah  !"  exclaimed  a 
gentlemanly-looking  stranger  who  had  ridden  up  a 
little  while  before.  He  took  off  his  hat  as  he  spoke  to 
lead  the  cheers. 

"  Who's  Belmont's  Abdallah  ?"  asked  Kincaid, 
brusquely. 

"  He's  the  horse  that  will  have  the  honor  of  beating 
Gray  Eagle,"  answered  the  stranger  with  quiet  assur- 
ance. 

"  Why  don't  you  trot  him  out  and  let  us  see  him  ?" 

"  You  will  see  him  soon  enough.     Hurrah  !" 

He  swung  his  hat,  and  the  crowd  cheered  good- 
naturedly.  The  stranger  proved  to  be  a  resident  of  a 
county  which  touched  the  one  in  which  Ortonville  was 
situated,  only  at  the  extreme  northwestern  corner.  The 
announcement  of  the  name  of  the  competing  horse 
added  greatly  to  the  interest  in  the  race,  which  was 
already  at  fever  heat  in  the  country  round,  and  directed 
attention  especially  to  the  country  from  which  the 
stranger  came.  So  the  cosy  training  camp  in  the  woods, 
a  mile  away,  remained  unsuspected  and  undisturbed. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


THE   SON    OF    ABDALLAH. 


The  day  of  the  race  was  all  that  could  be  desired,  and 
the  concourse  of  people  greater  even  than  had  been 
anticipated.  Long  before  the  hour  of  eleven,  the 
"  measured  mile  "  seemed  merely  a  broad  yellow  ribbon 
between  two  dark  lines  of  vehicles  ranged  along  the  sides. 
The  horses  were  tethered  in  the  fence-corners.  The 
men  wandered  back  and  forth,  some  along  the  roadway, 
others  trampling  through  the  tall  grass  in  the  adja- 
cent meadows.  The  marshals,  with  white  sashes 
across  their  shoulders,  rode  hither  and  thither,  getting 
the  crowd  in  order  and  finding  places  for  the  wagons 
still  arriving.  The  trees  in  the  orchard  and  along  the 
sides  of  the  course  were  filled  with  boys.  Men  perched 
on  the  fences  or  leaned  against  them,  whittling  as  they 
talked.  Here  and  there  were  venders  of  cakes  and 
cider,  ginger-beer  and  other  harmless  decoctions. 
Numerous  peddlers  plied  their  trade  up  and  down  the 
line  or  at  stands  where  they  displayed  their  wares. 
There  was  much  noise,  little  profanity,  very  few  dis- 
agreements, and  absolutely  no  pocket-picking. 

At  each  end  there  was  an  enclosure  made  by  ropes 
stretched  from  stake  to  stake  for  the  horses  and  their 
attendants.  From  these  the  public  was  rigidly  excluded 
by  the  marshals.     The  Gray  Eagle  occupied  a  spacious 


The  Son  of  Abdallah.  123 

marquee  in  the  orchard,  from  which  a  flag  gayly  floated. 
The  horse  that  was  to  compete  with  him  was  securely 
screened  from  prying  eyes  in  a  little  tent  erected  in  Seth 
Goodwin's  yard,  almost  under  the  branches  of  the  giant 
beech.  It  was  carefully  guarded  by  the  friends  of  Hor- 
ace Goodwin,  none  of  whom  seemed  to  know  however, 
what  manner  of  horse  it  was  that  stamped  and  whinnied 
when  the  brown  mare  was  taken  out,  that  her  master 
might  accompany  Kincaid  and  the  marshal  on  a  tour  of 
inspection  up  and  down  the  track,  to  see  that  everything 
was  in  proper  order  and  make  the  necessary  arrange- 
ment at  the  other  end.  A  great  crowd  had  gathered  at 
the  south  end  of  the  course,  where  it  was  supposed  the 
starts  would  be  made. 

Six  judges  had  been  appointed,  who  were  divided  by 
lot,  three  to  officiate  at  each  end  of  the  course.  At  the 
southern  terminus  they  were  given  seats  on  the  work- 
bench under  the  great  beech  ;  at  the  other  end  of  the 
course  they  sat  in  a  farm-wagon  drawn  up  beside  the 
chestnut-tree  which  marked  the  limit.  Forty  mounted 
marshals  were  stationed  along  the  track,  twenty  on  each 
side.  Their  duty  was  to  prevent  obstruction  or  interfer- 
ence with  the  race,  and  to  observe  and  report  any 
impropriety  on  the  part  of  the  riders  when  beyond  the 
judges'  view.  They  were  provided  with  white  and  red 
flags  with  which  to  telegraph  the  result  of  each  heat. 
There  was  to  be  an  interval  of  twenty  minutes  between 
the  heats,  and  the  horses  were  to  be  called  to  the  post 
by  the  beat  of  a  drum.  A  gun  was  to  be  fired  as  soon 
as  a  start  was  made,  to  notify  those  along  the  course 
that  a  heat  had  begun,  and  at  the  end  to  announce  the 
finish.  The  marshals  rode  back  and  forth  in  the  narrow 
ditches,  warning  the  crowd  off  from  the  track.  Boys 
swarmed  everywhere,  and  Delia  Kincaid's  black  pony, 


124  ^   Son  of  Old  Harry. 

white  plumes  and  waving  curls  flashed  in  and  out 
among  the  spectators  in  the  most  unexpected  places. 

When  Horace  Goodwin  returned  from  the  northern 
end  of  the  track,  he  speeded  the  brown  mare  along  the 
course,  the  rest  of  the  cavalcade  following  at  a  sharp 
gallop.  Everybody  cheered  the  mare  and  her  handsome 
rider,  who  was  quite  the  gentleman  in  blue  coat,  with 
brass  buttons  and  white  bell-crowned  hat.  Everybody 
declared  they  had  never  seen  a  mile  trotted  in  such  short 
time  and  good  form.  This  unexpected  and  gratuitous 
entertainment  put  the  crowd  in  rare  good  humor. 

When  all  the  details  were  completed,  the  marshal, 
standing  on  the  work -bench,  commanded  silence, 
ordered  the  track  to  be  cleared  and  that  no  one  should 
cross  it  until  the  race  was  ended.  His  deputies,  sitting 
on  their  horses  along  each  side  of  the  track,  waved  their 
flags  and  repeated  his  announcement.  Then  the 
makers  of  the  race  were  called  on  to  name  their  horses, 
and  Marshall  Kincaid,  standing  on  a  chair  on  the  west 
side  of  the  track,  named  Gray  Eagle,  giving  the  name 
of  his  sire  and  dam  and  announcing  himself  as  the 
owner.  At  the  same  moment,  the  sides  of  the  marquee 
were  thrown  back,  and  the  proud  horse,  with  his  wiry 
little  colored  jockey,  clad  in  gray  with  shining  boots  and 
spurs,  pranced  out  and  took  his  place  before  the  judges' 
stand.  Their  appearance  was  greeted  with  a  loud  cheer. 
Marshall  Kincaid  looked  flushed  and  confident.  People 
said  it  was  a  dangerous  look — he  felt  too  sure  of  win- 
ning. The  rumor  had  gotten  out  that  he  would  win  by 
fair  means  if  he  could,  but  meant  to  win  anyhow.  It 
was  more  a  deduction  from  his  general  character  than 
an  inference  from  any  specific  fact  which  had  come  to 
the  public  knowledge. 

Nothing  was  yet  known  about  the  horse  that  was  to 
contest  the  race  with  Gray  Eagle.     Kincaid's  horse  had 


The  So7i  of  Abdallah.  125 

been  galloped  along  the  track  every  day  for  a  week. 
Twice  in  the  dusk — morning  and  evening — two  persons, 
so  disguised  as  to  be  unrecognizable,  had  ridden  horses 
equally  well  disguised  along  the  track  ;  and  once,  on  a 
moonlight  night,  a  glimpse  of  two  white  forms  and  two 
straining  steeds  had  met  the  startled  eyes  of  neighbors, 
wakened  by  the  clatter  of  hoofs.  They  had  come  twice 
from  the  north  and  once  from  the  south,  and,  in  each 
case,  had  disappeared  at  the  first  cross-roads  beyond. 
That  one  of  these  was  the  horse  which  was  to  make  the 
race  with  Gray  Eagle  every  one  believed.  But  all 
efforts  to  trace  them  failed,  because  no  one  thought  of 
following  the  stony  beds  of  the  little  rivulets,  by  which 
the  riders  had  made  their  way  into  blocks  of  woodland, 
in  the  very  middle  of  which  the  training  stable  was  hid- 
den. There  was  a  breathless  silence,  therefore,  when 
Horace  Goodwin,  standing  jauntily  on  the  shoulders  of 
two  friends,  who  jocosely  offered  him  this  support,  took 
off  his  hat  to  the  judges  and  announced  : 

"  Belmont's  Abdallah,  son  of  Abdallah,  by  the  Bel- 
mont Mare  ;  bay  colt,  four  years  old  ;  never  entered  for 
any  race." 

"  Who  owns  him,  and  where  was  he  foaled  ?"  inter- 
rupted Kincaid,  imperiously. 

"  Seth  Goodwin  owns  him,  and  he  was  foaled  about 
forty  rods  from  where  he  now  stands !"  answered 
Horace,  with  a  ring  of  triumph  in  his  voice. 

The  announcement  was  so  unexpected  that  it  was 
received  at  first  in  silence,  then  with  shouts  which  were 
repeated  over  and  over  again,  as  the  information  made 
its  way  up  the  crowd-lined  course. 

'*  Do  you  want  any  proofs  of  these  facts,  Mr.  Kincaid.?" 
asked  the  marshal. 

'*  Nothing  but  the  horse,"  said  Kincaid,  incredulously. 


126  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

"  I've  known  him  from  a  foal,  and  'twon't  be  easy  to 
fool  me.     Trot  him  out !" 

Horace  Goodwin  placed  ^wo  fingers  of  his  left  hand 
between  his  lips  and  gave  a  shrill  whistle.  The  front  of 
the  tent  was  opened,  and  the  son  of  Abdallah  walked 
with  steady,  springing  strides  to  the  starting-place,  look- 
ing wonderingly  about  upon  the  unaccustomed  crowd. 
This  quiet  entry  had  been  carefully  planned  to  contrast 
with  the  expected  flourish  attending  the  production  of 
the  Gray  Eagle.  Jack  had  begged  to  be  allowed  to  ride 
bare-back  and  bare-footed  as  he  had  trained,  but  his 
mother's  pride  had  prevented  the  latter,  and  his  uncle's 
fear  of  objection  had  vetoed  the  former.  He  was 
attired,  therefore,  in  a  white  jacket  and  trowsers,  with 
red  stockings,  tied  above  the  knee  with  blue  ribbons, 
without  shoes,  and  wore  a  red  cap.  All  were  home- 
made. He  carried  a  long,  heavy  whip  strapped  to  his 
wrist  and  rode  a  narrow  sheepskin  pad  with  stirrups 
attached,  which  he  hardly  seemed  to  need. 

There  was  another  hush  as  every  eye  scanned  the 
points  of  the  new  candidate  for  the  honors  of  the 
turf,  who  stood  quietly  but  fearlessly  looking  round  on 
the  assemblage.  Some  thought  him  lacking  in  spirit ; 
others  said  he  was  too  long  in  the  back  to  endure  con- 
tinued exertion  ;  one  pronounced  him  too  deep  in  the 
chest ;  another  thought  him  too  low  in  the  withers  ; 
but  all  confessed  that  the  trim,  round  body,  slender 
limbs,  lithe  neck,  lean  head,  quick-moving  ears,  shiny 
coat  and  glossy  black  points  presented  as  nearly  perfect 
a  picture  of  the  ideal  horse  as  they  had  ever  seen. 

"A  big  little  horse,"  said  one  expert  to  another, 
sententiously. 

"  May  be  a  flyer  and  may  be  a  stayer,  or  may  be 
neither,"  was  the  cautious  answer. 


TJie  Soil  of  Abdallah.  127 

"  Bound  to  be  both,"  said  a  third,  "  with  Hod  Good- 
win backing-  him.     He's  the  horse  for  my  money." 

"  I  always  bet  on  the  horse,  not  on  the  owner," 
replied  the  other,  in  a  sarcastic  tone. 

On  the  whole,  the  impression  was  favorable  to  the 
colt,  Marshall  Kincaid  saw  it,  and  he  knew  it  was 
justified  by  the  animal's  appearance  and  Horace  Good- 
win's confidence  in  his  ability.  He  wished  to  do  some- 
thing to  counteract  it ;  not  that  public  opinion  makes 
much  difference  with  the  outcome  of  a  race,  but  the 
man  who  bets  always  wants  public  opinion  on  the  side 
of  his  horse.  There  is  a  notion,  too,  that  a  horse  knows 
when  he  is  winning  applause  and  feels  the  force  of 
public  favor. 

"  Do  you  have  to  ride  him  with  an  oxgad  ?"  asked  the 
owner  of  Gray  Eagle,  therefore,  with  a  sneer,  pointing 
to  the  whip  at  Jack's  wrist, 

**Why,  that's  style.  Marsh,  don't  you  understand?" 
answered  Horace,  jocosely,  "  I  couldn't  afford  to  bor- 
row a  nigger  and  fit  him  out  with  gimcracks  as  you 
have  done  ;  but  raw-hide's  cheap,  you  know,  and  being 
sure  you'd  got  the  longest  purse,  I  thought  I'd  try  and 
have  the  longest  whip," 

This  good-natured  raillery  was  received  with  applause 
by  the  crowd,  especially  the  company  of  young  men 
who  had  gathered  around  Horace  Goodwin  and  were 
justly  proud  of  his  easy  audacity, 

"  You  are  to  determine  where  the  start  is  to  be  made, 
and  have  the  choice  of  tracks,  I  believe,  Mr,  Goodwin," 
said  the  marshal. 

"  That's  the  bargain,"  confirmed   Kincaid. 

"  The  first  heat  will  begin  at  the  north  end  ;  the 
second  at  the  south,  and  so  on.  I  choose  the  west 
track,"  Horace  Goodwin  proclaimed. 

Both  these   announcements  created  some    surprise, 


128  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

but  the  marshal  repeated  them,  at  the  same  time  cau- 
tioning the  riders  that  if  either  crossed  into  the  other's 
track  with  a  lead  of  less  than  four  lengths  it  would  con- 
stitute a  foul  and  forfeit  the  heat. 

Two  mounted  marshals  were  sent  to  escort  the  horses 
to  the  starting-point.  One  rode  in  front  followed  by- 
Gray  Eagle,  and  the  other  after  him  followed  by  Abdal- 
lah.  The  veteran  racer,  catching  the  excitement  of  the 
admiring,  shouting  crowd,  pranced  and  ambled  along 
the  whole  course,  his  rider  foolishly  inducing  him  to 
sidle  and  curvet  for  the  gratification  of  the  behold- 
ers. Abdallah,  as  yet  ignorant  of  what  it  meant,  only 
looked  from  side  to  side  in  a  mild,  wondering  way, 
which  only  tended  to  confuse  the  on-lookers  as  to  his 
merits.  Jack  rode  with  a  loose  rein,  allowing  his  horse 
to  take  the  long,  easy  walk  to  which  he  had  been  accus- 
tomed in  training,  his  head  down  and  swinging  from 
side  to  side,  while  his  rider  fixed  his  attention  closely 
upon  the  track  he  was  to  use. 

**  I  guess  you're  right,"  said  the  man,  who  had  sneered 
at  the  idea  of  betting  on  the  owner.  "A  trainer  with  as 
long  a  head  as  that  move  indicates,  will  do  to  bet  on. 
Of  course,  if  anything  crooked  is  intended — and  I  can't 
help  thinking  something  is  in  the  wind — the  trap  has 
been  set  on  the  east  side  of  the  track,  and  it's  too  late  to 
change  it  now.  The  idea  of  sending  the  horses  through 
all  this  clamor  to  the  other  end  of  the  course  to  begin  is 
a  splendid  one,  too.  It'll  take  the  wire  edge  off  the  old 
horse,  who  will  be  fretted  by  it,  and  just  be  a  season- 
ing to  the  colt  to  whom  it  means  nothing  as  yet  Just 
see  how  he  swings  along  there,  as  if  he  was  plowing.  I 
guess  I'll  try  to  learn  something  more  about  him." 

He  sauntered  leisurely  over  to  where  Horace  stood 
talking  with  his  friends. 

"  A  fine  colt,"  he  said,  nodding  toward  the  track. 


The  Son  of  Abdallah.  129 

"  Some  think  so,"  was  the  careless  reply. 

"  Did  I  understand  you  to  say  he  is  a  foal  of  the  Bel- 
mont Mare  ?" 

"  Probably  ;  that's  the  case,  anyhow." 

"  You  said  the  Belmont  Mare,  I  believe  ?" 

"That's  what  I  meant." 

"  No  chance  for  any  mistake,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Got  the  evidence,  bang-up." 

"  There's  been  a  great  deal  of  inquiry  about  her  for 
the  last  two  or  three  years,  you  know  ?" 

**  That's  what  first  put  me  on  the  track  of  her." 

"  Most  people  think  she's  dead." 

"  So  she  is." 

"  You  know  she  has  two  of  the  fastest  horses  alive  to 
her  credit,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  and  she'll  have  another  before  sundown,"  con- 
fidently. 

"  Your  mount  seems  rather  young  ?"  in  a  doubtful 
tone. 

"  He's  a  Goodwin,"  answered  Horace,  shrugging  his 
shoulders. 

The  bystanders  laughed.  They  understood  the  force 
of  the  allusion. 

"  Is  he  marked  ?"  asked  one. 

"  He's  got  a  red  spur  on  his  heel,"  was  the  confident 
reply. 

"Then  he's  all  right." 

Again  the  little  group  of  friends  laughed. 

"  But  something  might  happen,"  said  the  stranger. 
"  The  horse  evidently  has  a  temper." 

Horace  chuckled,  quietly. 

"  See  here.  Mister,"  he  said,  glancing  hastily  around, 
and  lowering  his  voice.  "  That  whip  wasn't  meant  for 
such  as  you.     I'd  back  that  boy  to  ride  the  colt  with  a 


130  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

halter  and  win,  without  whip  or  spur.     You  just  watch 
them." 

"  Is  he  for  sale  ?" 

"  The  boy  ?" 

"No;  the  horse." 

"Will  be  after  the  race." 

"  Any  bids  up  ?" 

"  One." 
;      "  Is  it  a  secret  ?" 

"  No  ;  two  and  a  half." 

"  Hundreds  ?" 

"  Thou.s." 

V  Conditional  ?" 

"  As  a  winner — of  coiirse." 

"  If  he  wins,  I'll  double  it,"  significantly. 

"  All  right.    What's  the  name  ?" 

The  stranger  took  a  gold  pencil-case  from  his^pocket, 
opened  it  and  wrote  his  name  on  the  leaf  of  a  pass-book 
which  he  tore  out  and  handed  to  Goodwin. 

The  latter  started  in  surprise  as  he  glanced  at  it. 

"  So  you  owned — "  he  began. 

"Never  mind,"  interrupted  the  other,  significantly. 
"I've  owned  several  things  in  my  time." 

"  All  right,"  with  a  laugh.  "  Are  you  betting  on  the 
colt  ?" 

"  I  will  lay  you  fifty  on  the  Gray  Eagle — at,  let  me 
see,  what  odds — well — say  two  to  one." 

He  was  a  large  man,  with  somewhat  prominent  brown 
eyes.  As  he  uttered  these  words,  he  slowly  closed  one 
eye  as  if  going  to  sleep,  and  after  a  moment  opened  it 
-  with  equal  deliberation.  It  had  none  of  the  character 
of  a  wink,  but  Horace  Goodwin  answered  with  a 
chuckle  : 

"  Very  well  ;  I  haven't  much  money,  but  if  you  see 
anybody  that  wants    to  stake  a  little  cash   on   those 


The  Son  of  Abdallah.  131 

terms,  send  him  round  and  my  friends  will  accommo- 
date him." 

"  I  will,"  answered  the  other,  seriously. 

Five  minutes  afterwards  it  was  circulated  about  the 
course  that  the  former  owner  of  Gray  Eagle,  a  man 
well  known  in  the  world  of  sport,  was  on  the  ground 
and  backing  his  former  possession  at  odds  of  two  to 
one.  This  seemed  all  that  was  necessary  to  start  the 
betting  fever,  and  those  of  Goodwin's  friends  who  had 
nerve  enough  to  back  his  sagacity  and  luck  took  a  good 
many  small  wagers  on  these  terms. 

Cris  Barclay  was  the  starter  at  the  north  end  of  the 
course.  The  gray  was  half  a  length  ahead  when  the 
horses  went  under  the  string  ;  but  Jack  nodded  to  him 
and  he  gave  the  word.  If  the  hindmost  rider  was  satis- 
fied it  was  none  of  his  business.  The  starting-gun  was 
fired,  and  before  its  echoes  had  died  away  the  Gray 
Eagle  had  improved  the  advantage  he  had  at  the  send- 
off,  and  was  two,  three — a  half-dozen  lengths  ahead  ! 
What  was  the  matter  with  the  colt  ?  At  this  rate  he 
would  be  distanced  in  the  first  heat.  The  kind-hearted 
blacksmith  shook  his  head  and  groaned.  The  people 
along  the  route  were  silent.  The  Gray  Eagle's  jockey 
glanced  backward  and  spoke  encouragingly  to  his 
horse.  If  he  could  keep  his  lead  until  the  half-mile 
post  he  stood  to  win.  But  now  the  colt  began  to  close 
the  gap.  The  jockey  touched  the  Eagle  with  his  boot, 
not  spurring  him,  but  hinting  at  it  as  a  possibility. 
Still  the  bay  crept  up.  As  they  saw  it  the  people 
cheered.  Public  sympathy  was  evidently  with  the  boy 
and  the  home-bred  colt.  As  they  passed  the  half-mile 
maple,  the  black  muzzle  was  even  with  the  white  flank. 
The  Gray  Eagle's  rider  urged  him  openly,  and  the 
veteran  answered  with  a  magnificent  burst  of  speed. 
Still  the  colt  did  not  lag.     His  ears  were  laid  back,  the 


132  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

white  teeth  showed  as  he  champed  the  bit,  and  his  eyes 
flashed  wickedly  ;  but  he  neither  gained  nor  lost.  The 
boy  patted  his  neck  and  spoke  soothingly  to  him,  his 
hand  bearing  lightly  on  the  rein.  They  passed  the 
three-quarter  post,  and  now  the  colt  began  to  gain. 
The  rider  of  Gray  Eagle  is  using  the  spur  !  They  are 
twenty  lengths  away  from  the  big  beech,  and  the  black 
nose  is  on  a  Ime  with  the  white  one.  Now  the  boy  leans 
forward,  shakes  the  reins  and  speaks  sharply  to  the 
colt.  The  gray's  jockey  plies  the  whip.  The  old  horse 
responds  nobly,  but  in  vain.  The  colt  is  half  a  length 
ahead  as  they  pass  under  the  string. 

The  gun  is  fired.  A  shout  goes  up.  The  marshals, 
sitting  on  their  horses  along  the  course,  wave  their  red 
flags  to  show  that  the  bay  has  won.  Then  the  shout 
echoes  back  and  forth.  Seth  Goodwin  smiles  con- 
tentedly, and  his  wife,  standing  behind  his  chair  in  the 
front  doorway,  waves  a  greeting  to  the  boy,  who  glances 
toward  her  before  he  jumps  down  and  runs  into  the 
tent,  leaving  the  colt  to  be  cared  for  by  others. 

"  Well  done  !  Blamed  well  done  ?"  mutters  the  phleg- 
matic stranger,  as  he  saunters  back  to  get  a  closer  view 
of  the  colt. 

Kincaid  gave  some  directions  to  his  jockey,  and 
Horace  Goodwin  whispered  a  word  in  Jack's  ear  as  he 
tossed  him  to  his  seat  for  the  second  heat.  The  boy 
was  pale  and  the  set  lips  were  white  to  their  very  edges. 
There  was  some  trouble  about  getting  away,  and  again 
the  Gray  Eagle  got  the  lead  and  kept  it  all  the  way, 
winning  by  a  length  and  more.  The  time,  as  near  as  it 
could  be  computed,  was  nothing  like  as  good  as  in  the 
first  heat.  As  soon  as  the  result  was  announced,  Good- 
win's friends  scattered  themselves  along  the  southern 
part  of  the  track,     Kincaid's  followers  cheered  loudly, 


The  Soil  of  Abdallah.  133 

but  the  shout  lacked  the  volume  that  comes  from  num- 
bers, 

Seth  Goodwin  smiled  composedly  as  he  heard  it.  He 
did  not  doubt — he  could  not  doubt.  He  had  asked  this 
one  thing  of  God — the  God  he  had  served  and  loved — 
and  he  had  no  fear  that  his  prayer  would  not  be 
answered.  So  he  only  smiled  when  he  saw  the  white 
flags  waved  and  heard  the  shouts,  "  The  Gray  wins !" 
"  Hurrah  for  the  Gray  Eagle  !"  His  belief  in  the  colt's 
success  had  become  a  part  of  his  religion.  It  was  a 
curious  fact ;  and  the  wife,  who  stood  beside  his  chair, 
trembled  lest  his  faith  should  be  shattered  as  well  as 
his  hopes  dashed  by  defeat.  Fortunately,  neither  knew 
of  the  peril  which  confronted  the  lad,  since  no  whisper 
of  the  warning  received  had  been  allowed  to  come  to 
their  ears.  Indeed,  the  boy  had  given  only  the  vaguest 
hint  of  it  even  to  his  uncle.  When  the  gun  was  fired 
for  the  third  heat  the  Gray  was  again  in  the  lead  and 
remained  there,  though  evidently  much  distressed,  for 
the  first  quarter.  Then  the  colt  closed  up.  At  the 
half-mile  they  were  neck  to  neck.  Then  the  bay  shot 
suddenly  ahead,  and  at  the  third  quarter  there  were  a 
dozen  lengths  between  them.  A  roar  of  triumph  rolled 
before  him  down  the  line. 

"  No  chance  for  a  foul  there,"  said  Horace  Goodwin, 
standing  on  the  end  of  the  work-bench,  to  the  stranger 
at  his  side,  in  a  tone  of  exultant  satisfaction.  Every- 
body was  straining  to  see  the  finish  and  shouting  in 
anticipation. 

**  Ah  !"  exclaimed  the  stranger,  gazing  with  a  look  of 
horror  up  the  track.  What  he  saw  froze  his  blood  with 
terror !  Horace  Goodwin's  eyes  followed  his  startled 
gaze.  A  man,  brandishing  a  club  above  his  head,  had 
rushed  out  of  the  west  line  of  spectators  and  was  stand- 
ing directly  in  the  path  of  the  rushing  steed,  threaten- 


134  ^  ^^^^  ^f  ^^^  Harry. 

ing  the  colt  and  his  rider.  A  cry  of  angry  warning 
went  up  from  the  excited  crowd.  Even  at  that  distance 
Horace  knew  him.  He  was,  his  enemy  ;  his  brother's 
enemy,  too.  Dan  Marvin  meant  revenge.  The  crowd 
thought  so.  Women  shrieked  and  closed  their  eyes 
that  they  might  not  see  the  young  lad's  death. 

"  Get  off  the  track  !  Ride  him  down  !  Kill  him  !" 
were  cries  heard  amid  the  tumult.  A  dozen  men 
started  toward  the  intruder.  It  was  too  late  !  The 
bay,  with  outstretched  neck  and  gnashing  teeth,  was 
rushing  down  upon  him.  The  man  brandished  his 
club  and  shouted.  The  boy's  long  whip  went  back 
over  his  head.  He  leaned  forward,  and  it  cut  down 
into  the  man's  face  before  he  came  in  range  of  the 
brandished  club.  Marvin  shrank  back  with  a  howl  of 
agony.  The  colt  rose  to  leap  over  him,  hardly  pausing 
in  his  stride.  The  bent  knees  struck  the  man  in  the 
breast  and  he  was  thrown  down.  The  horse's  feet 
cleared  him  by  a  yard,  and  the  son  of  Abdallah  came 
home  a  winner  by  some  twenty  lengths,  not  having 
swerved  a  hair's  breadth  from  his  course  ! 

Horace  Goodwin  gasped,  as  he  wiped  the  cold  sweat 
from  his  brow  and  caught  the  boy  in  his  arms. 
Marshall  Kincaid  cursed  savagely  under  his  breath. 
The  crowd  broke  from  its  self-imposed  restraint  and 
swarmed  about  the  winner.  Dan  Marvin  would  have 
been  roughly  dealt  with  by  the  angry  multitude,  but 
when  taken  up,  he  was  found  to  be  insensible.  The 
concussion  had  been  very  severe,  though  no  bones  were 
broken,  but  the  heavy  rawhide  had  cut  a  deep  gash 
across  his  face,  the  end  striking  an  eye,  and,  it  was 
thought,  destroying  the  sight.  He  was  said  to  have 
been  half  drunk,  and  his  well-known  spite  against  the 
Goodwins  was  thought  a  sufficient  motive  for  his  act. 
though  some  were  suspicious  of  Kincaid.    There  was 


A  Son  of  Abdallah.  135 

a  rumor  which  gained  currency  afterward  that  the 
attack  was  expected  and  the  whip  loaded  with  shot 
in  anticipation  of  it.  The  blow  was  a  severe  one  for 
a  boy  to  give,  and  left  a  mark  time  would  never  wholly 
obliterate. 

"  Shows  the  effect  of  early  training,"  said  Horace  to 
the  stranger,  striving  to  recover  his  equanimity  and 
patting  the  colt's  drooping  neck  as  he  spoke.  "  Jump- 
ing over  logs  and  stumps  in  a  woods  pasture  did  that." 

"Well,  Hod,"  said  Kincaid,  jocularly,  crossing  the 
track,  when  the  result  had  been  announced,  "  I  believe 
I've  got  the  best  of  it,  if  you  did  win.  A  horse  like 
that  is  cheap  at  twenty-five  hundred." 

"  Would  be  if  you  got  him  for  that,"  answered  Horace, 
who  stood  at  the  colt's  head,  shaking  hands  and  answer- 
ing congratulations. 

"  If  I  got  him  ?  Why,  that  was  the  bargain.  I'm 
ready  to  pay  the  money  down." 

"  Not  at  all,  Mr.  Kincaid  ;  you  agreed  to  pay  that 
sum  for  the  colt  if  he  beat  the  Gray  Eagle,  but  nobody 
agreed  that  you  should  have  him  for  that." 

"Why,  that's  what  I  bet  on." 

"  Not  much  ;  you  staked  that  offer  against  my  mare. 
You  didn't  win  the  mare,  and  we  don't  accept  your 
offer." 

*'  It's  all  he's  worth,  anyhow,  and  you  ought  to  let  me 
have  a  chance  to  get  my  money  back." 

"  Your  money  back  !  You  haven't  lost  any  money, 
except  when  you  bought  Gray  Eagle — unless  you  have 
been  betting  on  him,"  he  added,  slyly. 

"  Well,  give  me  a  chance  to  make  some,  then.  What'll 
you  take  for  the  colt  ?" 

"  We're  offered  twice  what  you  agreed  to  pay,  right 
here  on  the  ground,  and  aren't  inclined  to  accept  that. 


136  A   Son  of  Old  Harry. 

You'll  have  to  bid  up  pretty  smart  if  you  want  to  come 
in,  Mr.  Kincaid." 

The  crowd  laughed  both  at  Horace's  good  fortune  and 
Kincaid's  discomfiture. 

The  boy  stole  off  during  the  excitement  attending  the 
finish,  and  flung  himself  sobbing  and  unstrung  upon  his 
father's  breast. 

"  Oh,  father,"  he  cried,  "  you  won't  be  troubled  now  ; 
you  will  get  well,  won't  you  ?" 

"  John  !"  exclaimed  the  watchful  wife,  in  a  tone  of 
cautious  remonstrance. 

"  You  are  a  good  boy,  Hubert,"  said  the  father 
solemnly,  brushing  back  the  damp  locks  and  kissing  the 
white  brow.  "  I  don't  think  I'll  ever  have  any  more 
trouble.  God  bless  you,  my  son — and  remember  this  : 
What  one  does  really  and  truly  for  another's  happiness 
is  not  likely  to  be  very  far  wrong." 

It  was  a  generous  notion,  though  a  very  doubtful 
ethical  principle.  But  Seth  Goodwin's  was  not  a  critically 
analytical  mind.  He  had  determined  to  countenance  the 
race  for  the  sake  of  his  wife  and  his  child,  even  at  the  risk 
of  Divine  disfavor,  and  was  amazed  and  enraptured  to 
find  that  he  felt  no  self-reproach  for  having  done  so  ; 
but,  on  the  contrary,  experienced  a  quiet  exaltation, 
which  assured  him  that  he  had  done  well  in  laying 
aside  for  once  the  scruples  of  a  lifetime.  It  was  thus 
he  formulated  the  lesson  of  his  own  heroism. 

The  mother  led  the  weeping  boy  away,  while  scores 
of  people  crowded  about  to  congratulate  their  friend 
and  neighbor  on  the  success  of  his  colt.  Not  one  who 
saw  Seth  Goodwin  at  that  time  ever  forgot  the  glow 
that  rested  on  his  face,  as  he  assured  them  that  he  had 
never  once  doubted  the  result,  because  he  had  asked  it 
of  God  in  faith,  believing  that  his  prayer  would  be 
answered. 


A  Soft  of  Abdallah.  137 

Before  the  morrow  dawned,  he  had  gone  to  meet  the 
judgment  of  unerring  wisdom  of  his  acts.  The  cold 
clay  wore  the  same  beatific  smile.  People  said  he  died 
happy  because  he  was  at  peace  with  God.  Horace 
Goodwin  alone  knew  of  the  terrible  determination  he 
had  expressed  to  secure  his  family  from  want,  even  at 
the  hazard  of  his  soul's  salvation. 

"  I  guess  he's  found  that  offering  himself  for  others' 
good  in  this  world  is  a  pretty  fair  passport  for  the  next," 
he  said  to  himself,  as  he  performed  the  last  sad  rites  for 
the  dead  brother. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  the  race  added  not  less  to  the 
renown  of  the  "  child  of  Theophilus  "  for  piety,  than  to 
the  reputation  of  the  "  son  of  Old  Harry  "  for  shrewd- 
ness. No  doubt  both  of  these  sentiments  were  en- 
hanced by  subsequent  events. 


PART  SECOND— HUBERT. 
CHAPTER   I. 


A    BIT    OF    NEIGHBORLY    GOSSIP. 

"  How's  the  Widow  Goodwin's  boy  to-day,  doctor  ?" 

"He  seems  a  little  better,  but  it's  hard   to  tell;  he's 
had  a  good  many  set-backs." 

"  Do  you  think  he'll  weather  it  ?" 

"  Well,  I  hope  so,"  said  Doctor  Kelsey,  turning  so  as 
to  hang  one  leg  over  the  side  of  his  gig,  and  expectorat- 
ing back  over  the  wheel.  "  You  see,  he's  young  and 
sound  as  a  nut.  This  last  affair  was  pretty  hard  on 
him,  but  he  seems  to  be  getting  the  better  of  it  now, 
and  if  nothing  more  happens,  I  guess  he'll  get  along  ; 
though  it's  been  a  touch-and-go  case  from  the  first. 
He'd  probably  have  had  a  mild  attack  of  brain-fever 
after  the  race,  anyhow.  It  seems  he'd  been  expecting 
trouble — they  had  some  hint  of  what  was  coming,  I  sup 
pose — and  then  there  was  so  much  depending  on  the 
race,  that  with  it  all,  and  the  danger  he'd  been  through, 
the  boy  was  all  broke  up  when  it  was  over.  Then  came 
old  Ryther's  sermon ;  that  was  enough  of  itself  to 
frighten  the  lad  into  fits  if  he'd  been  well." 

"That  was  too  bad." 

"  Bad  ?     It  was  the  meanest  thing  I  ever  heard  of, 
and  that's  saying  a  good  deal." 


A  Bit  of  Neighborly   Gossip.  139 

Doctor  Kelsey's  black  eyes  flashed  angrily,  as  he 
brought  his  leather-gloved  hand  down  on  his  plump 
knee  to  emphasize  his  remark.  He  was  the  ideal  coun- 
try doctor,  jolly  and  garrulous,  who  filled  the  gig  in 
which  he  rode  as  full  as  the  medicines  he  carried  filled 
the  plethoric  saddle-bags  that  hung  across  the  seat.  He 
was  active  despite  his  weight,  and,  though  given  to 
gossip,  never  missed  a  call.  He  was  autocratic  within 
his  sphere,  as  well  he  might  be,  for  physicians  of  his 
skill  were  rare  in  that  region,  and  the  consciousness  of 
power  made  him  free  to  express  opinions  upon  all 
subjects,  especially  those  effecting  the  welfare  of  his 
patients. 

"  If  I  had  imagined  the  old  rascal  would  have  been 
guilty  of  anything  so  outrageous,  I  would  have  forbid 
any  service  at  the  house.  The  boy  wasn't  able  to  go  to 
the  grave,  you  know,  so  he  would  have  escaped  that 
exposure,  anyhow." 

**  What  do  you  suppose  possessed  the  Elder  to  go  on 
so?" 

"  Well,  you  see,  he's  one  of  the  old-style  circuit-rider's, 
who  are  beginning  to  feel  that  they  are  losing  their 
grip  and  the  world  is  kinder  slipping  out  from  under 
them.  He  has  a  spite  at  grammar,  and  realizes  that 
people  are  getting  a  little  tired  of  that  sort  of  slang- 
whanging  he's  been  used  to  all  his  life.  Seth,  you  know, 
was  careful  of  what  he  said — pretty  particular,  in  fact — 
but  he  had  a  wonderful  voice  and  a  sort  of  natural  fire, 
that  always  put  the  old  man  in  the  background  when  he 
spoke  after  the  sermon,  as  he  very  often  did  when  Ryther 
preached.  This  naturally  didn't  make  the  Elder  love 
him  any  too  well,  and  when  he  refused  to  say  he  was 
sorry  for  shoving  that  sledge-hammer  fist  of  his  into 
Dan  Marvin's  pumpkin  face,  why  it  followed  just  as 
matter  of  course,  like  night  and  day,  that  Ryther  would 


140  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

take  away  his  license  to  exhort,  and  then  Seth  had  to 
leave  the  church  or  own  up  he'd  been  in  the  wrong. 
He  wasn't  the  kind  of  man  to  do  that,  and  when  he 
took  to  going  to  the  Congregational  meetings  and  stay- 
ing away  from  the  Methodist  services,  it  hurt  them 
more'n  it  did  him.  He  was  so  good  a  Christian,  that 
he  was  at  home  in  any  sort  of  meeting,  and  people  took 
sides  with  him  on  that  account." 

"  'Cause  there  wasn't  any  pretense  about  him — not  a 
mite,"  said  the  blacksmith,  sticking  the  knife-blade 
under  the  tire  of  the  wheel.  "  You  ought  to  have  these 
tires  set,  doctor  !" 

"  Been  going  to  have  it  done  this  long  time,  but  it 
hasn't  come  exactly  handy.  Well,  you  see,  the  people 
talked,  and  that  made  the  Elder  sour,  so't  when  he 
came  to  preach  the  funeral  sermon  he  thought  he  had  a 
chance,  to  get  even  with  Seth  by  just  sending  him  to 
hell  out  and  out,  by  the  short  cut  and  slippery  road." 

"  It  was  awful  ;  one  could  'most  smell  the  brim- 
stone." 

"  Smell  it  !  It  was  so  thick  you  could  cut  it  up  in 
chunks.  I  knew  it  would  pretty  near  kill  the  boy  to 
hear  his  father  talked  about  that  way  and  was  actually 
glad  when  he  jumped  up  and  gave  that  yell,  which  I 
hope  Ryther'll  hear  till  his  dying  day.  I  don't  know 
but  he  would  have  kept  right  on  after  they  took  the 
boy  out,  but  I  gave  him  a  hint  that  the  crowd  wouldn't 
stand  much  more  of  that  sort,  and  he  kind  of  mellowed 
down." 

"  It's  just  as  well  that  he  did  ;  it  was  only  respect  for 
Seth's  folks  that  prevented  trouble  as  it  was." 

"  Of  course,  and  the  old  fool  might  have  known  it 
wouldn't  do  to  say  such  things  of  a  man  that  every- 
body believes  is  just  about  as  sure  of  a  good  place  in 
heaven   as   there  are  to  be  good  places  there.     Ryther 


A  Bit  of  Neighborly  Gossip.  14 1 

did  the  church  more  harm  that  day  than  he's  done  it 
good  the  whole  year,  and  if  the  bishop  don't  take  him 
oflE  the  district  when  conference  meets,  there  won't  be 
enough  members  left  here  at  Ortonville  to  hold  an 
official  meeting." 

"  It's  too  bad — too  bad, '  said  Barclay,  sorrowfully. 

"  Well,  I  had  a  time,  you  may  imagine,  with  that  boy, 
for  a  week  after  that.  Couldn't  leave  him  a  minute 
with  any  certainty  how  I'd  find  him  when  I  got  back. 
I'd  made  up  my  mind  to  save  him  and  I  did.  You  may 
guess  how  anxious  I  was  by  my  going  there  three  times 
in  one  day  and  then  staying  all  night.  One  don't  often 
do  that  with  such  a  practice  as  I  have." 

"  I  s'pose  not,"  answered  the  blacksmith. 

"  Then  right  on  top  of  that  came  this  matter  about 
Hod.  I  expected  'twould  throw  the  boy  clear  down 
again,  but  he  don't  seem  to  take  it  to  heart  as  much  as 
I  s'posed  he  would.  He's  only  anxious  to  know  what's 
become  of  Hod,  and  don't  seem  to  think  he's  done 
anything  to  run  away  for." 

"  It's  been  rough  on  Hubert  and  the  widow,"  said 
Barclay,  with  a  sigh,  "  and  the  rest  of  us,  too,  for  that 
matter.  It's  mighty  disturbing  to  have  such  things 
happen  in  the  neighborhood." 

He  removed  his  foot  from  the  step  of  the  gig  and 
looked  up  into  the  doctor's  face,  irresolutely. 

"  That's  so,"  rejoined  the  other,  sympathetically. 
"  You  haven't  heard  any  news,  I  suppose  ?" 

The  question  was  asked  in  a  cautious  tone,  and  with 
an  almost  imperceptible  inclination  of  the  head  and  eye 
toward  the  residence  of  the  Goodwins. 

The  conversation  took  place  in  front  of  Chris  Bar- 
clay's shop  early  one  morning  a  week  after  the 
great  race.  The  blacksmith  had  hailed  the  doctor  as  he 
drove  past,  and  drawing  his  stiff  leather-apron  to  one 


142  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

side,  had  stood  with  one  foot  on  the  step  attached  to  the 
shaft  of  the  gig  while  he  talked.  His  arms  were  bare 
to  the  elbow  and  his  hands  only  lightly  smutched,  for  he 
had  just  started  a  fire  in  the  forge  preparatory  to  begin- 
ning his  day's  work.  His  face  was  pale  and  his  look 
one  of  sorrowful  anxiety. 

"  Wal — not  to  say  news,"  answered  Barclay,  hesi- 
tantly. 

"  Lots  of  surmises,  no  doubt  ?"  with  an  approach  to  a 
sneer." 

"  Of  course  ;  one  couldn't  help  surmisin'." 

"  'Tain't  a  bit  of  use  ;  ain't  nothing  to  build  on,  you 
see." 

"  Perhaps  not,  but  it's  a  sort  of  comfort,  after  all." 

"  Mighty  poor — might  almost  as  well  guess  at  the 
weather."  He  looked  at  the  sky  as  he  spoke,  and 
added  :    "  Are  we  going  to  get  a  shower  to-day  ?" 

"  Don't  see  any  signs  of  it,"  replied  the  smith,  care- 
lessly glancing  around  the  horizon.     "  How's  Dan  ?" 

"  He's  ^live,  that's  about  all ;  though  that's  a  good 
deal  in  such  a  case.  The  longer  a  man  lives  after  a 
whack  like  that  the  better  the  chance  of  his  getting 
'  well.  The  great  danger  is  that  he'll  sink  right  off  with- 
out any  reaction.  Of  course,  he  just  lives  on  brandy  ; 
but  that's  been  a  good  part  of  his  subsistence  for  quite 
a  while." 

"  Any  chance  for  him  ?" 

"  Well,  yes  ;  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  pulled  through. 
You  see  he  ain't  of  any  such  grain  as  the  boy.  His 
brain  don't  make  any  trouble  on  its  own  account  any 
more  than  a  steer's.  If  he  once  gets  over  the  shock, 
he'll  be  up  and  around  almost  before  you  know  it." 

"  You  don't  think  his  skull's  broke,  then  ?" 

**  There  may  be  a  fracture,  but  there  don't  seem  to  be 


A  Bit  of  Neighboi'ly  Gossip.  143 

any  depression  ;  and  as  long  as  there  isn't  he's  likely  to 
get  well,  if  we  can  keep  up  his  strength." 

"  He  isn't  rational,  I  s'pose — hasn't  said  anything,  I 
mean  ?" 

•*  O,  bless  your  soul,  no  ;  as  soon  as  he  becomes  con- 
scious he'll  be  practically  out  of  danger." 

"  And  you  think  that— that  Hod  did  it  ?" 

"  Not  a  doubt  about  it  ;  if  he  didn't,  who  did  ?" 

"  But  how  did  he  come  to  be  there — way  long  in  the 
night,  too  ?" 

"  Don't  ask  me  to  account  for  Hod  Goodwin's  where- 
abouts.    Where  was  he  for  six  weeks  before  the  race  ?" 

"  Sure  enough,"  said  Barclay,  with  a  start.  "  Why 
didn't  I  think  of  that  afore  ?" 

The  suggestion  evidently  brought  something  to  the 
blacksmith's  mind  which  did  not  occur  to  the  physician, 
for  he  smiled  quietly  as  the  doctor  responded  in  a  confi- 
dent tone. 

"  If  you  didn't  think  of  it,  everybody  else  did.  There 
isn't  any  doubt,  though,  about  where  he  was  night  before 
last.  Matthews  swears  he  heard  his  whistle — you  know 
one  who  has  heard  it  once  couldn't  ever  mistake  it  after- 
ward— along  about  one  or  two  o'clock,  over  and  over 
again,  as  if  he  was  calling  that  mare  of  his.  Then  he 
heard  voices  down  by  the  mouth  of  his  lane  ;  then  a  pis- 
tol was  fired,  and  he  heard  Hod's  mare  beating  the 
devil's  tattoo  up  the  road  toward  home.  In  the  morning 
there  was  his  pistol  lying  in  the  road  right  beside  of 
Dan,  with  the  smoke-stain  in  the  muzzle  as  fresh  as  if  it 
hadn't  been  more'n  an  hour  since  it  was  fired  off.  Dan 
Marvin  was  lying  there  with  his  head  broke,  and  half- 
way between  Matthews's  and  Seth  Goodwin's  place  was 
the  very  same  rawhide  the  boy  had  the  day  of  the  race, 
all  covered  with  blood.  Horace  Goodwin,  the  mare  and 
saddle  aren't  to  be  found.     What  more  do  you  want  ?" 


144  ^  'Son  of  Old  Harry. 

"  But  Hod  sat  up  with  the  boy  till  near  midnight ;  and 
there  was  his  coat  and  vest  and  hat  on  the  chair  in  his 
room.     You  don't  imagine  he  went  off  naked,  do  you  ?" 

"I  s'pose  Hod  Goodwin's  got  more'n  one  suit  of 
clothes,  hasn't  he  ?" 

"  Of  course  ;  but  how'd  he  come  to  be  off  down  the 
road  a  half-mile  away  at  that  time  of  night  ?" 

"  Who  says  it  was  midnight  when  he  left  the  house  ?" 
asked  the  doctor,  sharply. 

**  Why,  Mis'  Goodwin.  She  says  he  called  her  just 
before  twelve  to  set  up  the  rest  of  the  night  with  the 
boy." 

"  Exactly  ;  and  she  says  he  stepped  out  doors  then 
and  hasn't  been  back  since,  don't  she?" 

"Jest  so." 

"  'Tain't  a  very  likely  story,  is  it  ?" 

"  You  don't  think  Mis'  Goodwin  would  lie,  doctor  ?" 

"  Not  ordinarily,  and  perhaps  not  straight  out  at 
any  time  ;  but  when  you  come  to  know  women  as  well 
as  I  do,  you'll  find  there  aren't  many  of  them  that  won't 
dodge  the  truth  for  the  sake  of  those  they  love." 

"  But  Hod  Goodwin  ain't  nothin*  to  her,"  incredulously. 

**  Nothing  to  her  !  Why,  man  alive,  he's  her  hus- 
band's brother  and  the  boy's  uncle.  He's  a  Goodwin, 
too,  and  a  woman  that  marries  into  such  a  family  as 
that,  kind  of  marries  the  whole  tribe,  you  know." 

"  Susan  Goodwin's  an  honest  woman,  doctor,"  said  the 
blacksmith,  sternly. 

"  Who  said  a  word  against  her  honesty  ?  Don't  you 
know,  Chris  Barclay,  that  the  better  a  woman  is  the 
more  she'll  suffer  for  those  she  loves  ?" 

"  I  s'pose  so." 

"  Don't  you  know  that  woman  would  cut  off  her  right 
arm  to  save  Hod  Goodwin  from  State's  prison  or  the 


A  Bit  of  Neighboidy   Gossip.  145 

gallows,   and  her  husband's  and  son's  name  from  dis- 
grace ?" 

"I  s'pose  she  would,"  admitted  Barclay. 

"Well,  then,  do  you  suppose  she'd  mind  twisting 
the  truth  a  little  to  accomplish  that  result  ?" 

**  I  don't  believe  Susan  Goodwin  would  lie — nor  Hod 
Goodwin,  either,  doctor." 

"  Oh,  Hod  didn't  lie  ;  he  cut  and  run.  You've  heard  it 
said,  no  doubt,  '  Flight  is  confession.'  Hod  confessed 
when  he  ran  away."  ,, 

"  Confessed  what  ?"  inquired  the  loyal  neighbor. 

"  Why  the  shooting  and  beating  of  Dan  Marvin  ?" 

"  But  Dan  wasn't  shot,  was  he  ?" 

"  Well — not  as  we  know  of." 

"I  guess  you'd  have  found  it  out  if  he  had  been, 
wouldn't  you,  doctor  ?" 

"  Yes — I  guess  so  ;  but  Hod  probably  thought  he  was, 
and  concluded  he  might  as  well  finish  him  off  with  the 
butt  of  the  whip." 

"  Was  there  more'n  one  blow  struck  ?" 

"  Oh,  the  whole  side  of  his  head  is  a  perfect  pumice, 
and  he  bled  from  his  nose  and  ears  like  a  stuck  pig. 
That's  what  saved  him.  He  must  have  been  knocked 
down  and  picked  right  up  bodily  and  jammed  head 
first  against  that  stump.  Ain't  many  men  could  have 
done  it.     That's  another  point  against  Hod." 

"  But  how  did  Dan  Marvin  come  to  be  there  at  that 
time  of  night — more'n  a  mile  away  from  home  ?" 

"  There  you've  got  me,  Chris.     I  can't  make  it  out." 

"  You  don't  think  Hod  went  and  took  him  out  of  bed 
and  dressed  him  and  brought  him  way  down  there  to 
kill  him,  do  you  ?" 

"  Hardly,"  laughed  the  doctor.  "  But  how  do  you 
account  for  those  things  ?  Come  now,  let  me  cross- 
question  you  a  while." 


146  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

"I  don't  account  for  them  at  all,  doctor,"  answered 
the  blacksmith,  solemnly.  "  I  can't.  I  only  know  a  few 
things,  but  them  I  know  as  well  as  anybody," 

"  Let's  hear  them,"  jocularly. 

"  I  know  Hod  Goodwin  was  at  home  close  on  to  ten 
o'clock  night  before  last,  and  that  he  had  been  sitting 
up  with  the  boy  more'n  half  the  time  for  a  week,  besides 
all  the  other  trouble  he's  had  to  go  through  with. 

"  Well  ?" 

"  A  man  ain't  apt  to  go  frolickin'  'round  '  twixt  mid- 
night and  day,  under  them  circumstances,  is  he  now  ?" 

"  Well,  no — not  as  a  rule." 

"  I  should  think  not.  Now  there's  another  thing  I 
know,  and  so  do  you  ;  Horace  Goodwin's  been  a  little 
wild  one  time  and  another,  but  he's  always  been  straight 
and  square.  Nobody  ever  knew  him  to  do  a  mean 
thing,  and  there  ain't  a  man  in  Roswell  county  whose 
word'll  go  farther  than  his — is  there,  now  ?" 

"  Not  that  I  know  of  ;  up  to  this  last  affair,  that  is." 

"  Whatever  else  may  be  said  of  the  Goodwins,  they're 
proud  as  Lucifer  ;  now,  ain't  they  ?" 

"  That  they  are,  Chris  ;  there's  no  denying  that." 

"  And  Dan  Marvin's  been  right  the  other  way — a 
mean,  sneakin',  lyin'  cuss,  hasn't  he  ?" 

"You're  about  right  there,  too,"  assented  the 
Esculapian  gossip. 

"  Well,  now,  admitting  there'd  been  bad  blood 
betwixt  these  two — though  I  don't  believe  Hod  was 
ever  the  man  to  hold  spite — what's  likely  to  be  the  rights 
of  this  matter  ?  We'll  admit  one  of  'em  is  found  in  the 
road  a  mile  from  home,  his  head  broken,  t'  other  one's 
pistol  beside  him,  the  other  fellow's  whip  a  hundred 
rods  away,  covered  with  blood,  and  that  Matthews  says 
he  heard  a  whistle  and  voices  in  that  direction  ;  heard 
a  shot  fired  and  a  horse's  step  goin'  up  the  road,  'tween 


A  Bit  of  Neighborly   Gossip,  147 

midnight  and  daybreak.  We'll  say  the  other  man's 
missin',  too — horse,  saddle,  bridle  ;  his  nephew  is  lyin' 
just  at  the  p'int  of  death  ;  his  brother's  been  dead  less 
than  a  fortnight.     Them's  about  the  facts,  I  think  ?" 

''They'd  had  difficulties,"  suggested  the  physician, 
cautiously. 

He  was  a  politic  man,  always  found  on  the  popular 
side  in  all  neighborhood  affairs,  whenever  he  knew 
which  was  the  popular  one,  and  his  opportunity  for 
ascertaining  this  was  such  that  he  rarely  made  a  mis- 
take. The  public  sympathy,  which  had  been  with  the 
Goodwins  at  the  time  of  the  race,  had  been  greatly 
strengthened  by  what  had  occurred  afterward,  until  the 
morning  of  the  day  before,  when  Dan  Marvin  had  been 
found  lying  by  the  roadside,  half  a  mile  south  of  Seth 
Goodwin's  house,  unconscious,  breathing  stertorously, 
and  with  his  head  resting  in  a  pool  of  blood.  Word 
was  immediately  carried  back  to  Kincaid's  by  one  of  the 
drovers  who  made  the  discovery,  and,  either  by  acci- 
dent or  design,  the  rumor  was  at  once  set  afloat  that 
Horace  Goodwin  had  killed  Dan  Marvin.  The  horror 
which  such  an  event  inspires  in  a  peaceful  country 
neighborhood,  was  all  that  was  needed  to  ripen  this 
absurd  suspicion  into  actual  belief,  in  the  minds  of 
many,  and  even  the  wavering  were  staggered  by  the 
subsequently  developed  fact  that  Horace  Goodwin  and 
his  mare  were  nowhere  to  be  found.  A  warrant  was  at 
once  issued,  and  men  were  sent  to  follow  him  to  the 
northward  and  eastward,  whither  it  was  assumed  that 
he  had  fled. 

The  Marvins,  a  numerous  and  clannish  family,  were 
naturally  very  much  excited  and  clamorous  for  ven- 
geance on  the  supposed  aggressor.     The  whole  region,  • 
therefore,  had  been  in  a  ferment  the  day  before ;  and 
Doctor  Kelsey,  though  he  had  just  come  from  the  bed- 


148  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

side  of  the  unconscious  son,  and  the  tearful  eyes  of  the 
widow  of  Seth  Goodwin,  had  not  yet  observed  any  turn 
in  the  tide  of  public  sentiment  and  still  reflected  the 
heat  and  rage  of  yesterday's  excitement.  Chris  Barclay 
had  not  slept  since  the  terrible  news  was  brought  to  him, 
just  as  he  opened  his  shop,  the  morning  of  the  day 
before.  He  was  heavy-witted  as  men  of  great  muscu- 
lar capacity  are  apt  to  be,  but  true  and  loyal  to  his 
friends.  The  popular  resentment  against  Horace  Good- 
win had  been  so  fierce  and  the  circumstances  so  inscrut- 
able that  he  could  only  stand  dumb  and  helpless  before 
them.  During  the  night  he  had  laboriously  turned  the 
matter  over  in  his  mind,  walking  back  and  forth  up  and 
down  the  "  measured  mile"  until  the  dawn.  He  could 
not  unravel  the  mystery,  but  he  had  determined  to 
stand  by  his  friend.  The  doctor  was  the  first  who  had 
offered  him  opportunity  to  put  his  resolution  into  prac- 
tice. 

*'  I  never  heard  that  they  had  actually  come  to  blows, 
did  you  ?" 

"  Hod  gave  him  a  bad  throw  at  the  barn-raising  at 
Phinney's  last  year,  you  remember." 

"  That  was  ring- wrestling,  and  Dan  got  it  up  himself. 
I  was  there  and  saw  the  whole  thing.  Hod  threw  him, 
as  everybody  knew  he  would,  and  he  made  a  fuss  because 
the  ground  was  hard  ;  that's  all  there  was  of  that.  You 
know  yourself,  doctor,  a  man  can't  always  pick  out  a 
soft  place  for  one  he's  throwing  over  his  head.  One 
has  to  catch  a  lock  when  he  can,  and  the  fellow  that's 
thrown  must  fall  where  he  lights.  That's  wrestler's 
luck,  and  a  man  that  is  a  man  won't  whine  over  it." 

"  Well,  you  know  there's  been  bad  blood  between 
them  both  before  and  since." 

"  I  know  Dan  Marvin  has  always  been  threatenin'  to 
do  them  harm — Hod  and  Seth,  both  ;  I've  heard  him 


A  Bit  of  Neighborly   Gossip.  149 

and  so  have  you  ;  and  you  know  what  he  did  the  day  of 
the  race?" 

"  O,  he  was  drunk,  then." 

"  Drunk !  Fudge !  People  don't  plan  to  murder 
folks  when  they're  drunk." 

"  You  don't  think  he  meant  to  kill  the  boy  ?" 

"  Don't  I  ?  Do  you  know  what  kind  of  a  club  he  had 
that  day  ?    Jest  wait  a  minute  and  I'll  show  you." 

The  smith  went  into  his  shop  and  soon  returned  with 
a  large  club,  the  bark  of  which  had  been  cut  off  in  short 
occasional  cuts,  forming  a  checkered  spiral  line  which 
wound  around  it  from  end  to  end. 

"  There  'tis  ;  Hank  Wilder  picked  it  up  and  gave  it  to 
me  that  day.  I  told  him  not  to  say  anything  about  it, 
and  brought  it  home  and  laid  it  on  the  plate  of  the  shop. 
Nobody  else  has  set  eyes  on  it  from  that  day  to  this. 
Now,  what  do  you  think  of  a  club  like  that  ?  Just  heft 
it  once." 

"  It's  a  deadly  weapon,"  answered  the  doctor,  with  a 
grave  look  upon  his  face. 

**  I  should  think  it  was  !  I'd  just  as  soon  be  hit  with 
my  sledge-hammer.  Why,  doctor,  that's  three  feet  long, 
green  blue-beech,  an  inch  and  a  half  through  at  one 
end,  an  inch  and  a  quarter  at  the  other  and  most  as 
heavy  as  lead.  I  could  break  your  gig  all  to  smash  with 
it." 

He  hit  the  wheel  a  resounding  blow  as  he  spoke. 

"  There,  there  ;  don't  try  it  on  that !  It's  a  dangerous 
weapon,  and  goes  to  show  the  bad  blood  between 
them." 

"  On  his  part ;  not  on  Hod's.  There  ain't  no  doubt 
but  he  had  bad  blood." 

"The  Goodwins  have  got  a  temper  of  their  own," 
said  the  doctor,  with  a  shrug.  "  Even  the  boy  left  a 
bad  mark  on  Dan  that  day,  in  spite  of  his  war- club." 


150  A   Son  of  Old  Harry. 

"  Hubert  is  a  good  boy,"  rejoined  the  blacksmith, 
gravely,  "  and  as  brave  as  Julius  Caesar.  He  knew 
what  was  comin'  that  day,  or  near  enough  to  guess. 
Hod  wanted  him  to  carry  a  pistol,  and  I  borrowed  one 
for  him  to  practice  with," 

"  Why  didn't  Hod  use  his  own  ?" 

"  Sure  enough  !"  exclaimed  the  simple-minded  black- 
smith. "  I  remember  now  ;  he  said  he'd  lent  it  or  sold 
it,  I  don't  remember  which,  more'n  a  year  ago  ;  but 
Hubert  will  know  all  about  it  when  he  gets  well." 

It  was  curious  how  everybody  called  the  boy  by  the 
name  his  father  had  used  as  soon  as  the  father  was 
dead. 

"  Did  he  have  it  the  day  of  the  race  ?" 

"  Hod  gave  it  back  to  me  two  or  three  days  before, 
and  said  that  Hubert  thought  he'd  rather  not  have  it, 
for  fear  he  might  kill  somebody," 

"  And  you  think  Horace  had  no  pistol  at  that  time  ?" 

"  Don't  believe  he's  had  one  for  a  year." 

"  Then  this  one  that  was  found  in  the  road,"  sug- 
gested the  doctor,  "  wasn't  his,  perhaps  ?" 

"  I  declare,  doctor,  how  you  do  see  things  ?"  inter- 
rupted Barclay,  gleefully.     "  I  never  thought  of  that !" 

The  other  nodded  complacently. 

"  Now,  what's  the  sense  of  turnin'  in  all  of  a  sudden 
without  stoppin'  to  think,  and  gettin'  out  a  warrant 
againvSt   Hod  ?" 

"  Knocking  a  man  senseless  on  the  highway  is  a 
pretty  serious  affair." 

"  Any  worse'n  killin'  a  man  ?" 

"  Killing  a  man  ?    Who's  killed  ?" 

"  It's  my  notion.  Hod  Goodwin  is." 

"  Why,  Chris  Barclay  !  What's  put  that  idea  in  your 
head  ?     It — it — why,  man,  it's  preposterous  !" 

"  Maybe  to  you,  but  to  a  man  who  don't  jump  at  his 


A  Bit  of  Neighborly  Gossip.  1 5 1 

conclusions  like  a  grasshopper,  it  ain't  so  very  absurd. 
I  don't  blame  you  so  much,  A  doctor's  always  got  to 
shoot  off-hand,  and  is  likely  to  miss  his  sights  some- 
times. But  I  pondered  all  one  day  and  tramped  pretty 
much  all  night,  afore  I  could  make  head  or  tail  of  this 
matter." 

"  And  what  is  your  conclusion,  Mr.  Barclay  ?"  asked 
the  doctor,  with  a  deference  he  had  not  before  mani- 
fested. 

"Well,  doctor,"  rejoined  the  smith,  throwing  his 
apron  back  over  his  shoulder,  so  as  to  enable  him  to 
take  a  plug  of  tobacco  from  his  trowsers'  pocket,  "  I've 
concluded  this  :  Dan  Marvin  wasn't  there  by  Matthews's 
Lane  at  that  time  of  night  for  no  good  ;  and  he  was 
there  for  some  sort  of  harm  to  Hod  Goodwin.  If  that 
was  so,  he  wasn't  there  alone — he's  too  big  a  coward  for 
that — and  it's  my  notion  he  and  whoever  it  was  with  him 
meant  to  steal  Hod's  mare,  or  do  him  some  bodily 
harm.  They  probably  did  both — killed  him  and  run  off 
the  mare.  You  know  there's  a  desperate  gang  of  horse- 
thieves  down  towards  Kentucky  line.  They  didn't  have 
a  chance  to  take  Dan  along,  or  else  didn't  care  to,  and 
probably  took  Hod  away  just  to  prevent  the  body  being 
found  and  a  hue  and  cry  for  murder  raised  before  they 
got  out  of  the  State." 

"  Why,  Mr.  Barclay,  you  don't  think  so  !" 

"  That's  just  what  I  do  think,"  replied  the  smith,  cut- 
ting off  a  chew  of  tobacco  and  putting  it  in  his  mouth. 
"  And  I  don't  ever  expect  to  see  Hod  Goodwin  alive 
again." 

'•  But  there  was  no  traces  of  any  one  else  where  the 
body  was  found  !" 

"Now,  doctor,  that's  too  ridiculous.  As  if  you  didn't 
know  that  a  drove  of  two  hundred  mules  and  horses 
came  up  from  Kincaid's  just  at  daylight,  and  the  men 


152  A  So7i  of  Old  Harry. 

who  were  driving  them  were  the  first  to  find  Marvin 
What  trace  would  there  be  after  that  herd  had  tramped 
over  the  road  ?  If  they'd  stopped  the  brutes  and  let 
me  gone  along  the  road,  I'd  soon  found  where  the  mare 
went  to." 

"Sure  enough,"  replied  the  doctor,  swinging  his  fat 
leg  back  into  the  gig  and  taking  up  the  reins,  ready  to 
depart.  '*  I  hadn't  looked  at  it  in  that  light.  But  if 
they  came  after  horses,  why  didn't  they  take  the  colt.' 
He's  worth  more  than  the  mare." 

"  So  he  is  ;  but  you  seem  to  forget  that  he's  about 
the  hardest  horse  to  manage  that  was  ever  known  in 
this  region — kind  as  a  kitten  to  them  he  likes,  but 
worse'n  the  devil  to  one  he  takes  a  spite  against." 

**  I  ought  to  know  that  ;  he  came  at  me  once  with  his 
mouth  open,  as  if  he'd  eat  me  up,  just  because  I  cracked 
my  whip  at  him,  going  through  the  yard  one  day.  He 
never  forgot  it,  either.  He'll  lay  his  ears  back  and 
show  his  teeth  at  sight  of  me  yet." 

"  Exactly  ;  that's  his  way  ;  been  like  a  pet  dog  all  his 
life.  I've  always  shod  him,  and  he  don't  mind  me.  I've 
never  hurt  nor  angered  him  ;  but  I  wouldn't  under- 
take to  get  him  out  of  that  box-stall  of  his,  especially 
at  night,  for  a  good  deal  ;  would  you  ?" 

"  I  ?    Not  for  a  ten-acre  lot  full  just  like  him." 

"  Now,  I'll  tell  you  a  queer  thing,  doctor.  I  went  up 
to  the  barn  at  Goodwin's,  yesterday  morning,  just  to 
look  around  a  little,  and  I  found  the  pin  gone  out  of 
that  sliding-door  and  the  horse  had  a  halter  on — a  thing 
he  hasn't  worn  in  the  barn  since  he  was  a  yearlin'.  I 
looked  in,  and  found  blood  on  the  inside  of  the  door. 
The  colt  seemed  glad  to  see  somebody  he  knew,  and  I 
took  off  the  halter,  and  found  there  was  blood  on  that, 
too." 


A  Bit  of  Neighborly   Gossip.  153 

"  You  don't  tell  me  !"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  excit- 
edly.    "  What  do  you  suppose  it  means  ?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I  don't.  Really,  we  are  getting  to  be 
a  very  mysterious  community.  First  Hod  and  the  boy 
are  lost  for  a  month  ;  then  the  nigger  Kincaid  had  bor- 
rowed disappears  ;  and  now  one  man's  gone  entirely 
and  another's  likely  to  go,  and  nobody  knows  anything 
about  who  did  it  or  what  it  was  done  for." 

He  tightened  his  reins  and  clucked  to  his  horse,  which 
had  been  contentedly  nodding  while  his  master  talked. 

"  Nothing  been  heard  of  the  nigger,  I  suppose  ?"  said 
Barclay,  carelessly. 

"  Nor  ever  will  be,"  was  the  answer.  "  He  disappeared 
right  here  on  the  track  the  day  of  the  races,  just  as  if 
the  earth  had  opened  and  swallowed  him  up.  Kin- 
caid'll  have  to  pay  a  pretty  sum  for  his  loss.  But  he's 
able  and  he  shouldn't  race  with  a  man  that  always  has 
the  very  devil's  luck  with  horses,  like  Hod  Goodwin,  if 
he  didn't  want  to  lose  ;  that's  what  I  tell  him.  I  wouldn't 
risk  a  dollar  against  anything  that  Hod  backed,  if  it 
was  a  brindle  steer  against  Eclipse." 

"  Well,  you  couldn't  lose  anything  if  you  didn't  bet," 
laughed  Barclay. 

"  Just  what  I  tell  Kincaid.  He's  got  a  lot  of  men  out 
watching  all  the  roads  to  catch  that  nigger  ;  but  I  tell 
him  it's  no  Use.  It's  my  opinion  the  Abolitionists  had  a 
hand  in  his  disappearance  anyhow.  I  should  have  sus- 
pected Seth,  if  he  hadn't  died  that  very  nigUt,  and 
Ryther,  if  he  hadn't  been  so  savage  on  Seth.  It's  about 
the  only  thing  they  ever  really  agreed  on.  But,  of 
course,  that's  out  of  the  question.  It's  my  notion  some- 
body took  him  off  in  a  wagon,  and  probably  before 
Kincaid's  men  started  out  they  got  him  half-way  to 
Canada," 


154  ^  ^o'f^  ^/  O^^  Harry. 

"  Shouldn't  wonder." 

"  Well,  good  morning." 

The  doctor  whipped  up  his  drowsy  nag  and  drove  off. 

"  Well,"  said  Barclay,  looking  after  him  with  a  smile, 
**  I've  given  him  something  to  talk  about,  anyhow.  He's 
just  as  sure  to  repeat  what  I've  said  in  every  house  he 
goes  into  to-day,  as  he  is  to  lie  to  his  patients.  He 
won't  say  a  word  about  me  or  my  notions  either — they'll 
all  be  his  ideas.  That's  his  way — just  as  sly  as  a  fox. 
Before  noon  he'll  have  told  the  story  so  often  he'll  actu- 
ally think  it's  his  own  wares  he's  peddlin'.  Well,  it 
can't  do  no  harm,  and  is  just  as  likely  to  be  true  as  any 
other  guess.  I'm  goin*  up  to  the  camp  though,  to  see 
what's  there.     Queer,  I  never  thought  of  that  before." 

He  drew  out  the  fire  he  had  started  upon  the  forge, 
locked  the  shop,  and  crossing  the  ravine  to  his  house, 
took  down  his  gun  and  whistled  to  the  dog.  In 
response  to  his  wife's  inquiry,  he  said  that  he  had  heard 
a  turkey  gobbling  "  up  in  the  clearing  "  and  thought  he 
would  try  and  get  a  shot  at  it.  He  did  not  tell  her  he 
might  not  be  back  until  late.  When  she  saw  him  take 
his  gun  she  knew  that  he  would  return  either  when  he 
had  secured  the  game  he  set  out  to  take,  or  had  given 
up  all  hope  of  doing  so.  She  always  expected  him,  she 
said — when  he  came. 


CHAPTER  II. 


A    BEATEN    BULLY. 


"  Do  you  think  I'll  get  well,  doctor  ?" 

The  voice  was  low,  and  the  face  that  looked  lip  at 
Doctor  Kelsey  from  the  coarse  pillow  had  a  timid  piti- 
fulness  which  was  rendered  almost  grotesque  by  the 
bluish  grayness  of  the  close-shaved  scalp  above.  Instead 
of  answering,  the  doctor  rose  and  put  aside  the  calico 
curtain  which  was  drawn  across  the  window  at  the  head 
of  the  bed,  and,  returning,  sat  down  by  the  bedside, 
took  the  patient's  wrist  and  narrowly  scanned  the  coarse, 
ashen-hued  face  with  a  livid  mark  running  diagonally 
across  it. 

"  When  did  this  change  take  place  ?"  he  asked  of  a 
tall,  blacked-haired  woman  who  stood  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed. 

The  room  was  a  small  one — the  ordinary  family  bed- 
room in  a  half -furnished  farm-house.  In  length,  it 
exceeded,  by  perhaps  two  feet,  the  bedstead  whose 
stained,  curled-maple  posts  were  turned  to  represent  a 
series  of  spheres  with  variously  beaded  and  decorated 
intervals  between  them.  There  was  a  space  of  three  or 
four  feet  in  front  of  the  bed,  which  had  a  valance  of 
cheap,  coarse-figured  calico.  The  door  opened  into  the 
kitchen  where  the  table  was  spread  for  breakfast,  which 
part  ot  the  family  had  eaten.    The  room  was  unfinished 


156  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

— a  convenient  addition  to  the  main  building,  being 
neither  ceiled  or  plastered.  The  inside  of  the  lapped 
poplar  siding  showed  a  creamy  white  between  the 
unplaned  studding.  Clothing  for  men  and  women  was 
hung  indiscriminately  on  nails  driven  into  the  joists. 
The  room  was  rough  but  not  uncomfortable.  The 
woman  the  doctor  addressed  stood  leaning  against 
a  bed-post,  her  head  resting  upon  the  ball  on  its  top, 
while  her  hand  grasped  the  narrow  post  below. 

"  He  seemed  to  wake  up  kind  of  sensible  this  morn- 
ing," she  said,  apologetically,  in  answer  to  his  demand, 
"  and  begun  to  talk  and  ask  questions  ;  but  he  didn't 
get  this  blue,  peaked  look,  nor  seem  shivery  and  low- 
spirited  till  just  a  few  minutes  ago.  Do  you  think  he's 
worse,  doctor  ?" 

The  anxious  eyes  in  the  pallid  face  upon  the  pillow 
watched  the  physician  eagerly,  and  the  pale  lips  trem- 
bled as  they  waited  his  reply.  The  doctor  knit  his  brow 
and  pursed  his  lips, 

"  He  ought  to  get  well  without  any  difficulty,  now  he 
has  regained  consciousness,"  said  he,  finally,  "  but  this 
doesn't  look  like  it.     What's  he  been  doing  ?" 

'*  Do  you  think  it's  his — his  mind,  doctor  ?"  asked  the 
woman,  tearfully. 

"  His  mind  ?"  repeated  the  other,  with  a  half-percepti- 
ble chuckle.  "  I  shouldn't  expect  that  to  trouble  him 
much." 

"  I  mean — if — if  there  was  anything  on  it." 

"  Eh  ?  What  ?"  queried  the  doctor,  facing  around  and 
turning  his  head  sidewise  upon  his  short,  fat  neck,  to 
look  up  at  her. 

"  His — his  conscience,  you  know  !"  she  replied,  put- 
ting a  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  and  sobbing  dis- 
tractedly. 


The  Beaten  Bully.  157 

"  You  haven't  been  talking  religion  to  him,  I  hope  ?" 
the  physician  ejaculated,  angrily. 

"  But,  doctor,"  expostulated  the  woman. 

"  Don't  talk  to  me,"  he  interrupted.  "  I  see  what's 
the  matter.  These  over-pious  people  kill  more  than 
sickness  and  fool-doctors  both," 

He  caught  up  his  saddle-bags,  swung  them  angrily 
over  one  knee,  and  began  to  unbuckle  them  with  the 
deftness  which  comes  only  from  long  practice. 

"  This  boy  of  yours  has  been  bad  enough  in  all  con- 
science, Mrs.  Marvin,"  he  continued,  reprovingly,  "  but 
you  ought  to  have  had  sense  enough  not  to  begin  to 
talk  religion  to  a  man  just  out  of  a  comatose  condition. 
The  very  purpose  of  giving  him  a  stimulant  was  to 
prevent  this  reaction  that  is  just  coming  on.  I  don't 
know  whether  I'll  be  able  to  check  it  or  not.  If  I  don't, 
there's  no  chance,  and  he'll  just  die  because  his  mother 
hadn't  sense  enough  to  let  him  live." 

"  But,  doctor,  it  wasn't  me,"  protested  the  woman  ; 
"  I  didn't  say  anything — only  begged  him  to  keep  still. 
It  was  himself  ;  he's  got  that  on  his  mind  won't  let  him 
rest,  you  see." 

"  Won't  let  him  rest  ?"  asked  the  doctor,  in  surprise. 

**  He  says  he  can't  ever  rest  till  he  knows  what's 
become  of  Hod  Goodwin." 

"  Nobody  knows ;  you're  the  last  one  that's  seen  him, 
for  he  hasn't  been  about  these  parts  since  he  came  so 
near  killing  you,"  the  doctor  said,  looking  questioningly 
at  the  anxious  face  on  the  pillow. 

*'  But  it  wasn't  Hod — at  all  ;  that  hurt  me,  I  mean." 

"  Wasn't  him — who  was  it,  then  ?" 

"  It  wasn't  anybody,"  said  the  sick  man,  stubbornly. 

"  Wasn't  anybody  ?  Don't  tell  me.  You  don't  expect 
me  to  believe  you  did  it  yourself,  do  you  ?" 

■'  Better  tell  him,  Dan,"  said  the  woman,  resignedly  ; 


158  A   Son  of  Old  Uiwry. 

"  you'll  feel  better  afterward.  I  knew  he'd  been  sort  of 
wild,  doctor,"  she  added,  "  but  I  didn't  evej  think  it 
would  come  to  this." 

She  buried  her  face  again  in  the  handkerchief,  and, 
leaning  against  the  high  post,  shook  the  bed  with  her 
sobs. 

"  It — was — the — the  horse,"  whispered  the  man, 
weakly. 

"  The  horse  ?" 

**  Yes,  doctor,"  said  the  woman,  raising  her  head  in 
desperation,  "  he's  a  thief — a  horse-thief — my  Dan  is  ! 
Think  of  that  !  I  wish  I  had  died  before  I  ever  heard 
the  words  !  He  didn't  get  it  from  me,  doctor.  There 
wasn't  never  any  thieves  in  the  Russell  family — nor  from 
his  father,  either.  He  isn't  as  good  as  some  men,  but 
he  never  took  nothin'  that  wasn't  his — never  !"  she 
exclaimed,  wildly. 

"  A  thief  !    What  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  the  physician. 

"  Tell  him  all  about  it,  ma,"  said  the  young  man,  his 
teeth  chattering  and  the  blue  lips  quivering. 

"  Here  !  You  take  this  and  keep  still.  Bring  me 
some  water  and  a  spoon  !"  the  doctor  commanded, 
sharply. 

He  snatched  a  bottle  from  his  saddle-bags,  removed 
the  cork,  took  out  a  portion  of  the  white  powder  it  con- 
tained on  the  point  of  his  knife-blade,  jogged  it  with 
his  fore-finger  and  dropped  it  into  the  worn  pewter 
spoon  the  woman  brought.  Then  he  drew  the  blade 
across  his  tongue  and  glanced  again  at  the  label  with 
accustomed  caution — testing  both  by  sight  and  taste  his 
accuracy — dipped  up  a  little  water  in  the  spoon,  stirred 
the  powder  -into  it  with  his  knife-blade,  and,  while  the 
woman  raised  her  son's  head,  placed  the  spoon  between 
the  blue  lips, 


The  Beaten  Bully.  159 

"  There,  you  go  to  sleep  now  !  Everything  will  be 
all  right.  "  I'll  tend  to  it ;  don't  you  worry." 

"  Tell  him  all  about  it,  ma,"  repeated  the  young  man, 
with  weak  compliance. 

The  mother  smoothed  the  pillow  ;  the  physician  sat 
with  his  fingers  on  the  patient's  wrist,  his  glance  riveted 
on  the  weazened,  timorous  face.  For  a  while  no  one 
moved  or  spoke.  Presently  the  eyes  of  the  invalid 
closed,  he  drew  a  long  breath  and  sank  into  a  quiet 
slumber.  The  doctor  waited  a  moment  longer.  Then 
he  rose  softly,  dropped  the  curtain  into  place  over  the 
window,  and,  nodding  to  the  woman,  went  out  into  the 
other  room. 

"  Won't  you  have  some  breakfast,  doctor  ?"she  asked, 
as  she  gently  closed  the  door.  "  Everybody's  eat  and 
gone.     You  must  have  started  early." 

"  I  haven't  much  time,  but  I'll  take  a  bite,  while  you 
tell  me  about  this  matter,  if  it's  no  trouble." 

"  Not  a  bit,"  said  the  woman  as  she  took  a  plate  of 
biscuits  from  a  tin  oven  before  the  fire,  also  one  of  fried 
pork  and  some  roasted  potatoes.  She  did  not  tell  him 
thai  it  was  her  own  breakfast  which  she  had  put  aside 
untasted.  The  doctor's  early  morning  ride  had  not 
impaired  his  appetite. 

"  Well  ?"  he  said,  inquiringly,  looking  up  from  his 
plate. 

The  woman  sat  opposite,  her  long  figure  clad  in  coarse, 
slatternly  garments,  her  black  uncombed  hair  half  fall- 
ing from  its  coil,  and  her  great  dark  eyes  filled  with  a 
pathetic  hopelessness,  while  the  tears  ran  silent  and 
unheeded  down  her  faded  cheeks. 

"  I  s'pose  I've  got  t'  tell  you,  doctor  ;  everybody'll 
have  to  know  it,  in  fact.  It  wasn't  young  Goodwin  at 
all.  I  don't  bear  him  no  good-will,  for  he  led  Dan  into 
bad  ways — a-t  least  I've  always  believed  he  did — I  don't 


i6o  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

know  now  ;  perhaps  I  was  mistaken.     At  any  rate,  he 
didn't  hurt  Dan." 

The  tears  fell  on  the  dark  wrinkled  hands  that  lay  in 
her  lap. 

"  Who  did,  then  ?" 

"  It  was  the  horse — the  one  that  won  the  race,  you 
know.  I  might  as  well  out  with  it ;  he  won't  ever  get 
well  unless  I  do  ;  I  knew  that  as  soon  as  he  told  me. 
It's  the  Lord's  will,  and  perhaps  his  soul'll  be  saved  even 
if  his  body  does  rot  in  jail.  It  was  the  horse,  doctor," 
she  repeated.  "  You  see,  some  of  them  horse-thieves 
down  along  the  line — the  Lewis  gang — were  up  here 
the  day  of  the  race,  and  somehow  they  managed  to  get 
hold  of  Dan,  and  together  they  fixed  it  up  finally,  when 
the  lick  he  got  that  day  had  kind  of  healed  up — to  go 
and  steal  the  colt  and  the  mare  both.  There  was  three 
of  them,  Dan  says,  one  on  a  horse  who  stayed  down  at 
the  road  to  watch  while  Dan  and  the  other  fellow  went 
to  the  barn  for  the  horses.  They  got  the  mare  out  and 
saddled  her,  and  then  Dan  went  in  after  the  colt.  He 
knew  just  what  a  temper  the  critter's  got,  but  he  wasn't 
ever  afraid  of  anything.  So  he  took  a  halter  and  went 
into  the  stall  and  managed  to  get  it  on  the  beast's  head  ; 
but  when  he  started  to  lead  him  out,  the  colt  reared  up 
and  beat  and  pawed  him  till  he  hadn't  a  bit  of  sense  left, 
and  he  didn't  know  nothin'  more  till  he  came  to  him- 
self this  morning." 

"  Where's  Horace  Goodwin,  then  ?" 
*'  That's  what  troubles  him,  doctor.  As  soon's  I  told 
him  what  had  happened,  an'  that  Hod  wasn't  to  be 
found  nowhere,  high  nor  low,  he  said  he  was  a  murderer 
as  well  as  a  thief.  You  see  he's  afraid  them  other  fel- 
lows have  made  way  with  him  and  run  off  the  mare." 

**  It  does  look  that  way,  sure  enough,"  said  the  doctor, 
starting  up.     "  But  how'd  Dan  come  to  be  found  way 


The  Beaten  Bully.  i6i 

down  below  Matthews's  place,  if  he  got  hurt  at  the 
stable  ?" 

*'  He  don't  know  no  more  about  it  than  a  babe  unborn," 
answered  the  mother,  solemnly.  *'  I've  tried  him  every 
which  way,  and  there's  no  doubt  about  that.  He's  a 
horse-thief,  doctor,  and  may  never  get  well — I  most 
hope  he  won't ;  but  this  I  will  say  for  him — he  never 
lied  to  his  mother — not  that  I  know  of,  at  least." 

"  How  did  it  happen  that  he  was  not  cut  by  the 
horse's  hoofs  ?" 

"  He  says  the  colt  must  have  reared  up  and  kind  of 
hit  him  on  the  top  of  the  head.  They  had  taken  ofE  his 
shoes  after  the  race,  when  he  grew  so  valuable  all  at 
once,  it  seems,  and  put  on  a  sort  of  leather  boots,  com- 
ing up  over  the  hoofs  to  keep  'em  soft.  That's  what 
Dan  says,  at  least." 

"  Exactly  ;  that  explains  what  I  couldn't  account  for." 

The  doctor  walked  the  floor  a  moment  in  deep 
thought,  stepped  into  the  bedroom,  came  back  and 
made  up  a  half-dozen  powders. 

"  He's  doing  well  now,"  he  said  ;  "  sleeping,  with  a 
light  sweat  breaking  out.  Give  him  one  of  these  pow- 
ders every  hour  if  he  wakes,  but  don't  wake  him.  He 
ate  something  this  morning  ?" 

"Just  a  mouthful  of  gruel." 

"  You  might  have  a  bit  of  chicken-broth  ready  against 
he  asks  for  it.  And  if  I  were  you,  Mrs.  Marvin,  I 
wouldn't  say  anything  to  anybody  about — this  matter, 
you  know.  There's  no  use  of  going  out  to  meet  trouble. 
It  may  pass  over  without  amounting  to  much.  He's 
paid  pretty  dear  for  what  he's  done  already.  I'll  try 
and  be  round  again  in  the  afternoon,  and  may  be  able 
to  advise  you  better  then.  At  any  rate,  take  care  of 
Dan.  It  all  depends,  on  care  now — care  and  quiet — and 
freedom  from  worry." 


1 62  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

"  If  we  only  knew  about  Hod  Goodwin,"  said  the 
troubled  woman,  anxiously, 

"  We  know  which  way  to  look  for  him  now,  at  any 
rate,"  answered  the  doctor,  as  he  took  up  his  saddle- 
bags and  made  his  way  to  the  gig  beside  the  gate. 
What  wonder  that  he  drove  away  at  a  somewhat 
unusual  pace  ?  He  was  the  wisest  man  in  all  the  town- 
ship, even  if  he  did  not  know  much  about  the  matter  he 
was  burning  to  relate. 


CHAPTER   HI. 

A   runaway's  nest. 

Chris  Barclay  drew  near  the  place  where  the  son  of 
Abdallah  had  been  trained,  with  all  the  caution  an 
Indian  uses  in  approaching  the  camp  of  an  enemy. 
Just  what  he  expected  to  find  there  he  could  not  have 
told.  Indeed,  he  could  hardly  be  said  to  have  expected 
to  find  anything.  Perhaps  the  nearest  approach  to  a 
distinct  hypothesis  which  he  had  yet  formed  was  that 
Horace  Goodwin  might  have  committed  the  act  with 
which  he  was  charged,  been  wounded  in  the  struggle, 
and  hidden  away  here  to  await  recovery  before  making 
his  escape.  If  this  should  prove  to  be  true,  what  did  he 
intend  to  do  ?  He  did  not  know.  He  was  a  law-abiding 
man.  Though  a  friend  and  a  most  zealous  and  faithful 
friend  of  Horace  Goodwin,  he  could  not  stand  by  him  as 
a  law-breaker.  He  doubted  if  he  could  conscientiously 
aid  him  to  escape  ;  but  he  was  not  bound  to  apprehend 
him  or  give  information  that  would  lead  to  his  arrest. 
So  he  reasoned  with  himself,  as  he  stole  noiselessly 


A  Runaways  Nest.  163 

along  the  wood  paths  with  that  instinctive  avoidance  of 
all  that  would  betray  his  presence,  which  only  the 
experienced  woodsman  ever  acquires. 

He  had  heard  that  one  who  aided  another  to  escape  the 
clutches  of  the  law  was  guilty  of  a  crime ;  but  he 
assured  himself  that  if  he  found  his  friend  wounded  and 
helpless,  the  law  could  not  blame  him  for  relieving  his 
need.  However,  it  was  just  as  well  that  no  one  should 
know  what  sort  of  errand  he  was  on.  Perhaps  his  idea 
was  a  mere  fancy.  Probably  all  he  would  find  would 
be  the  deserted  sugar-camp  and  the  cooking  utensils  left 
there  by  the  trainers.  He  had  been  in  the  secret ;  had 
shod  the  colt,  and  had  spent  several  jolly  nights  there 
just  before  the  great  race.  He  knew  that  the  death  of 
the  elder  brother  and  the  illness  of  the  boy  had  pre- 
vented Horace  from  removing  the  things  they  had  used. 
How  chill  and  lonesome  it  would  seem  to  find  the  cabin 
silent  and  deserted  !  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  so 
desolate  as  an  abandoned  camp.  He  thought  it  probable 
that  the  squirrels  had  made  havoc  with  the  clothing  and 
provisions.  It  is  queer  what  eager  investigators  the  little 
rascals  are,  A  camp  seems  to  attract  them  as  honey  does 
flies.  It  cannot  be  the  expectation  of  plunder,  for  they 
may  never  have  seen  one  before.  It  must  be  the  instinct 
of  curiosity — a  desire  to  satisfy  themselves  about  unex- 
pected things.  They  will  wait  and  watch  for  days  and 
take  advantage  of  the  first  hour's  absence  to  come  and 
explore,  Chris  Barclay  laughed  to  himself  as  he 
thought  what  a  jolly  time  they  would  have  at  the 
deserted  training-camp.  Besides  the  'remnants  of 
cooked  food,  there  was  plenty  of  meat — salt  pork  of 
which  they  are  so  ravenously  fond — a  bread-box  they 
had  no  doubt  found  a  way  into,  apples,  potatoes,  eggs 
and  a  keg  of  cider,  He'wondered  if  the  rascally  shadow- 
tails  had  tapped  that  and  relished  its  contents,    Almost 


164  A  So7i  of  Old  Harry. 

before  he  knew  it,  he  was  at  the  edge  of  the  little  cleared 
space  in  which  the  camp  stood. 

He  stopped  and  scrutinized  it  through  the  branches 
of  an  alder-bush  that  grew  beside  the  stream.  There 
was  nothing  stirring  and  everything  about  the  place  was 
as  silent  as  the  grave  ;  yet  somehow  the  place  did  not 
seem  deserted.  There  was  a  black  squirrel  hopping 
along  an  opening  upon  the  hillside  back  of  the  cabin, 
and  a  gray  one  sitting  on  a  stump  across  the  stream, 
shaking  his  silver  brush  in  the  sunlight  and  chee-chee- 
ing  to  one  hidden  in  the  limbs  of  a  chestnut,  on  the  bank 
above.  But  there  were  none  about  the  cabin  or  on  the 
pile  of  wood  against  it.  Chris  Barclay  knew  by  this 
that  the  camp  was  occupied  as  well  as  if  he  had  the  testi- 
mony of  actual  sight.  But  by  whom  ?  He  did  not 
know  ;  somehow,  now  that  it  lay  there  before  him,  in 
the  hot  summer  sunshine,  he  did  not  care  to  guess.  He 
wished  he  had  not  come,  and  had  serious  thoughts  of 
retracing  his  steps.  While  he  waited,  the  neigh  of  a 
horse  sounded  on  the  still  air. 

"  Old  Queen,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  I  could  almost 
swear  to  her  voice  ;  I  expect  the  critter  has  winded  me." 

He  moistened  his  finger  with  his  lips  and  held  it  up 
to  find  the  direction  of  the  wind,  not  otherwise  appreci- 
able. 

"Yes,"  he  continued,  "that's  it.  Wind  lays  just  as 
square  to  the  camp  as  one  could  point  a  compass.  She's 
got  a  mighty  delicate  nose,  that  mare  has,  and  is  as 
sharp  as  a  watch-dog.  Now,  who's  with  her  ?  'Tain't 
no  use  of  askin*.  Wherever  she  is.  Hod  Goodwin  ain't 
very  faraway.  If  I  thought  he  was  well  and  hearty  I'd 
turn  around  and  go  home,  but  there  ain't  no  sense  in 
thinking  so.  Hod  ain't  the  man  to  sneak  out  of  any- 
thing he's  done.  But  then,  v/hat's  he  hid  away  here 
for  ?     I  don't  like  it,  I  vow  I  don't." 


A  Rujiaway's  jYes/,  165 

He  shook  his  head  in  perplexity,  and  let  the  stock  of 
his  gun  rest  on  the  ground  while  he  took  out  his  tobacco, 
opened  his  knife  and  very  deliberately  cut  off  a  new 
supply  of  his  favorite  luxury.  When  he  had  done  this, 
he  turned  his  attention  again  to  the  camp. 

"  Well,  by  thunder  !  What  next  ?"  he  exclaimed. 
The  .sight  that  met  his  gaze  was  well-calculated  to 
awaken  surprise.  In  the  door  of  the  cabin  appeared 
the  diminutive  form  of  the  jockey  who  had  ridden  the 
Gray  Eagle,  still  wearing  the  suit  which  had  been  so 
conspicuous  on  the  day  of  the  race.  He  was  a  light 
mulatto,  of  slender  frame  and  bright,  intelligent  fea- 
tures. Glancing  quickly  up  and  down  the  narrow 
valley,  he  came  forward  a  few  steps,  and  scrutinized, 
with  evident  anxiety,  his  surroundings.  The  hot  July 
sun  beat  down  upon  his  head,  unprotected  save  by  the 
mass  of  hair  that  lay  kinked  and  matted  on  his  crown. 
Chris  Barclay  stood  and  watched  him  from  his  place  of 
concealment,  scarcely  a  hundred  yards  away.  There 
was  another  whinny.  The  boy  turned  inquiringly  and 
looked  down  the  path,  glanced  quickly  from  side  to  side, 
held  his  breath  to  listen,  and  finally,  shaking  his  head 
and  muttering  to  himself,  walked  slowly  back  to  the 
cabin.  After  a  moment  there  came  another  whinny  of 
apparent  recognition. 

"  The  old  gal  knows  who  'tis  she's  winded,"  said  the 
blacksmith,  with  a  certain  satisfaction.  "  She  certainly 
is  the  most  knowin'  horse  I  ever  run  across  in  my  life. 
I've  known  her  to  come  to  the  shop  of  her  own  accord 
more'n   once,  and  hold  up  her  feet   to  be   shod.*    I 

*  This  may  seem  an  incredible  statement,  but  some  years  ago 
the  writer  was  the  owner  of  a  Mambrino-Morgan  mare,  who, 
being  left  unfastened,  as  was  customary,  before  his  office  door, 
went  not  once  but  many  times  to  the  smith's  shop  around  the 


i66  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

wonder  what  the  nigger  is  going  to  do  now  ?"  This 
remark  was  caused  by  the  reappearance  of  the  boy, 
wearing  his  jockey  cap  and  jacket,  and  coming 
straight  down  the  path  beside  which  the  smith  was 
standing. 

"  Hello  !"  he  called,  as  the  boy  sprang  across  the 
narrow  stream  and  stood  almost  within  arm's  length  of 
him,  stepping  forward  as  he  spoke.  The  boy's  face 
grew  pale,  and  he  turned  instinctively  as  if  to  fly.  A 
single  glance  at  the  athletic  blacksmith,  however, 
appeared  to  change  his  purpose,  and  he  looked  up  with 
an  air  of  relief,  and  said,  with  real  gratification  in  his 
tone  : 

"  I  'clare,  Marse  Barclay,  I's  mighty  glad  ter  see  you. 
I  war  jes'  gwine  dewn  ter  your  house  arter  you." 

"  You  were  ?"  incredulously. 

"  I  war  that,  shore." 

"  Wanted  me  to  take  you  back  to  Kaintuck,  I  s'pose  ?" 
said  the  blacksmith,  with  grim  sarcasm. 

"  I  warn't  thinkin'  'bout  that — at  least,  I'd  quit 
thinkin'  'bout  it  jes'  now.  I  wanted  you  for  _somebody 
else." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  Barclay,  with  sudden 
alarm. 

"  Jes'  you  come  an'  see." 

The  boy  turned  and  recrossed  the  brook,  the  smith 
following  on  a  line  of  stepping-stones  placed  there  for 
the  purpose.  The  jockey  went  straight  to  the  cabin, 
which  he  entered,  and  Barclay,  coming  close  behind 
him,  saw  lying  on  the  pile  of  hay  which  had  served  as 
their  bed  while  training  the  colt,  the  form  of  Horace 

corner  where  she  was  accustomed  to  be  shod,  and  put  up  one 
foot  after  another  for  inspection,  returning  afterward  of  her 
own  accord  to  her  usual  standing-place. 


A  R7i7iaway  s  Nest.  167 

Goodwin,  his  face  flushed,  and  his  breathing  dull  and 
heavy.  As  he  looked,  the  boy  stooped  down,  and, 
uncovering  the  shoulder,  showed  a  bloody  bandage 
around  it. 

"  Shot  ?"  said  Barclay. 

The  boy  nodded.  The  smith  stared  in  dumb  amaze- 
ment at  this  unexpected  confirmation  of  his  surmise. 
He  had  never  been  accounted  a  wise  man,  nor  even 
esteemed  himself  one,  and  that  he  should  have  guessed 
the  truth,  or  even  a  part  of  the  truth  in  regard  to 
Horace  Goodwin's  disappearance,  seemed  to  hopelessly 
confound  his  faculties.  He  watched  the  bc^  replace  the 
covering,  rise,  and  look  inquiringly  at  him. 

"  How'd  he  come  here  ?"  was  the  only  question  he 
could  ask. 

"  Rode  the  mare." 

"  When  ?" 

"  Night  afore  last.  You  see,  I  was  a  hidin'  out  here, 
and  way  'long  in  de  night  I  heard  somebody  jes'  come 
a-chargin*  up  the  path,  an'  see  a  hoss — it  was  bright 
moonlight,  yer  know —  stop  with  head  right  in  de  doo' 
and  the  feet  jes'  a-trampin'  in  the  rushes  there.  I  was 
layin'  low  over  the  back  part  of  de  pile  o'  hay  nex'  to  de 
rof,  an'  I  could  jes'  see  her  head  an'  fore-shoulders  ag'in't 
the  light.  I  didn't  know  who  'twas  on  her,  but  I  thought 
they'd  tracked  me,  an'  my  time  hed  come." 

*'  What  were  you  doing  here,  anyhow  ?"  asked  Bar- 
clay, suspiciously.  Though  he  knew  the  boy  was  a  run- 
away slave,  the  fact  was  such  an  unusual  one  to  his 
mind,  that  it  kept  slipping  away. 

"  It  was  my  onliest  chance,  you  know.  Marse  Mosely 
was  dar  on  de  groun',  an'  Miss  Deely,  she  tole  me 
dey  was  gwine  ter  start  back  with  me  fo'  Kaintuck 
that  night.  I  knew  he'd  be  fractious'  ca'se  he'd  lost,  too, 
but  law  sakes,  it  warn't  no  use  fer  dat  ole  hoss  ter  try 


1 68  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

ter  do  nothin'  wid  dat  colt.  He  certain  is  a  flyer  from 
way  back.  De  little  miss  knew  I  wanted  to  get  away 
where  I'd  be  free,  an*  she  tole  me  'bout  dis  yere  place. 
'Twas  all  of  a  suddin,  not  a  minit  to  think,  an'  while 
all  de  rousement  an'  hullabaloo  was  gwine  on  about  de 
race  I  slipped  off,  an'  'fore  anybody'd  missed  me,  I 
s'pose,  was  hid  in  de  big  trof  under  de  hay." 

"  What  made  you  stay  here  so  long  ?" 

"  What  else  was  I  ter  do  ?  Didn't  everybody  fer  fifty 
miles  round  know  dese  clo'es  ?" 

He  glanced  at  his  jockey  suit  as  he  spoke. 

"  Sure  enough,"  assented  Barclay,  with  a  nod, 

"Wal,  I  des  corncluded  I'd  bes'  stay  right  here  ez 
long  as  de  provisions  held  out,"  the  boy  continued,  with 
a  grin.  "  I  thought  people  might  fergit  'bout  it  after 
a  while,  er  I  might  git  somebody  ter  help  me.  I'd  'bout 
made  up  ter  come  an'  see  you,  Marse  Barclay." 

"  You  had  ?" 

"  'Deed  I  had,  sah." 

"  What  for  ?" 

"  Didn't  know  but  you  might  help  me — or  know 
somebody  dat  would.  You  was  always  mighty  kind 
when  I  come  'bout  de  shoein'." 

**  But  I — well,  I'm  thundering  glad  you  didn't.  My 
wife's  down  on  the  Abolitionists  the  worst  way." 

The  honest  fellow  took  off  his  palm-leaf  hat  and 
fanned  himself  to  relieve  the  sudden  heat  induced  by 
the  thought  of  what  might  have  been  the  result  of  such 
an  appeal. 

"  I'd  hev  come  ef  it  hadn't  been  fer — fer  him,"  with  a 
glance  toward  the  sleeper. 

"  What  did  he  say  when  he  found  you  here  ?" 

"  Say  ?  Lor'  bless  yer,  he  war  done  past  sayin'  enny- 
thin',  he  war.  The  mare  she  stood  and  whinnied  once 
or   twicet,   jes'  ez   ef  she  was   a-callin'   somebody,  you 


A  Runaways  Nest.  169 

know,  an'  I  thought  I  heard  a  sort  of  groan.  After  a 
long  while  I  crawled  out  as  keerful  ez  I  could,  that  mare 
callin'  ter  me  all  de  time  ter  hurry  up  an'  come  along, 
jes'  ez  plain  ez  ef  she  could  talk  almost,  an'  when  I  got 
to  de  doo'  an' peeked  out  dere  was  somebody  jes'  a-layin' 
down  on  her  an'  hangin'  onto  her  neck. 

"  Den  I  was  wuss  scart'n  I'd  been  afore  ;  but  I  thought 
I'd  ez  well  do  somethin'  ez  nuthin,'  'case  de  mare  was 
pawin'  an  whinnyin'  ez  ef  she  thought  I  was  des  a 
stupid  fool.  So  I  went  an'  took  hold  of  him  an'  tried  to 
lif  him  down  ;  but  I  couldn't.  So  I  led  de  mare  in 
here,  and  after  a  while  got  his  hands  loose  an'  kind  o' 
eased  him  down  on  de  hay.  The  mare  she  went  on  into 
de  stall  as  soon  as  I  got  him  off  an'  began  to  eat  ez  ef 
she  knew  she'd  done  her  part. 

"  I  made  up  a  light — I'd  found  some  fire  in  de  ashes 
an'  kept  it  mighty  keerful — an'  got  some  water  an 
washed  his  face.  His  shirt — he  hadn't  no  coat  on — 
was  all  covered  wid  blood.  I  was  lookin'  round  fer 
de  place  he  was  hit,  when  he  spoke  up  an'  axed  fer 
a  drink.  I  giv'  him  some  water,  an'  after  that  his 
head  was  cla'r,  but  he  was  powerful  weak — he'd  bled 
so  much,  you  see.  As  soon  ez  I'd  found  de  place  where 
he  wuz  hit,  he  made  me  tell  him  all  'bout  it,  whar  it  was 
an'  how  it  looked,  an'  then  tole  me  whar  to  git  some 
cloth  that  I  tore  up  an'  wet  in  cold  water  an'  bound  on 
it.  He  said  that  was  better'n  nothin',  an'  in  de  mornin' 
he'd  tell  me  what  else  ter  do.  When  it  come  mornin', 
he  said  he  guessed  I'd  better  go  an'  see  you  when  it 
come  night  again — though  he  hadn't  quite  decided.  He 
seemed  powerful  anxious  that  I  shouldn't  go  in  de  day- 
time, which  suited  me,  too  ;  but  afore  night  he  was 
out'n  his  head,  though  he  tried  his  best  ter  keep  up,  an' 
I  did  all  I  could  for  him." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  how  it  happened  ?" 


170  A  Sou  of  Old  Harry. 

"  Nary  word,"  said  the  boy,  cautiously, 

*'  I  'lowed  'twas  a  *  difficulty  betwixt  gentlemen,'  sah, 
dat  de  least  said  about  de  better,  I  thought  he  might 
be  hidin*  out,  too,  an'  it  wouldn't  hurt  my  chances  none 
ter  have  company,  ef  he  once  got  well." 

"  That  wasn't  a  bad  idea,  either,"  said  Barclay,  "  but 
what's  to  be  done,  now  ?" 

He  stooped  and  put  his  hand  on  his  friend's  forehead, 
and  then  felt  his  wrist. 

"  Seems  mighty  fevery,  don't  he  ?  Ought  to  have  a 
doctor — but  who  knows  if — if  it  would  be  safe  to  get 
one.  Just  let  me  try  to  think  a  while.  'Pears  as  if  that 
darned  race  was  goin'  to  break  up  the  whole  neighbor- 
hood," 

The  sturdy  smith  sat  down  upon  the  stump  beside  the 
door  and  fanned  himself  while  he  undertook  the  task 
more  wearisome  to  him  than  the  labor  of  the  anvil —  of 
trying  to  think  out  the  puzzle  which  had  so  unexpect- 
edly presented  itself  for  solution. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


OUT    OF    THE    EAST, 


"  Doctor,  I  wish  you'd  drive  down  into  the  pasture 
with  me  ;  I  want  to  show  you  something." 

"  I'd  like  to,  Chris,  but  I'm  in  a  great  hurry  ;  so  many 
folks  sick,  it  keeps  me  riding  all  the  time.  Heard  any- 
thing since  morning  ?" 

The  doctor  pulled  up  his  gig  in  the  open  space  before 
Barclay's  shop.  The  cinders  crunched  beneath  the 
wheels.     The  door  of  the  shop  stood  open,  and  the  fire 


''Out  of  the  East"  171 

shone  brightly  upon  the  forge  still  blown  into  white,  spark- 
ling flame  by  the  weight  upon  the  bellows  which  the  smith 
had  just  quit  working.  A  hammer  lay  upon  the  glitter- 
ing anvil.  A  tub  of  water  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
shop  with  various  forms  of  pincers  hung  around  its  sides. 
Other  tools  were  scattered  on  the  forge.  His  shoeing- 
box,  with  its  appropriate  kit,  stood  beside  the  anvil. 
Metallic  scales,  cinders  and  hoof- clippings  littered  the 
earthen  floor. 

The  shop  was  rough-boarded  and  unpainted.  The 
weather  and  the  sooty  dust  had  given  it  that  peculiar 
brown  which  no  other  building  ever  acquires.  Over  the 
door  was  the  modest  sign. 


C.  BARCLAY, 
Blacksmith. 


On  one  of  the  doors  was  burned  the  form  of  a  horse- 
shoe ;  on  the  other,  a  square  and  compass.  The  outside 
of  these  doors,  and  the  whole  front  of  the  shop  indeed, 
were  decorated  with  notices  written  and  printed,  of 
various  matters  supposed  to  be  of  interest  to  the  public. 
Wagons  and  parts  of  wagons,  in  all  stages  of  dilapida- 
tion and  repair,  stood  about  the  yard  or  leaned  against 
the  shop.  A  frame  for  the  setting  of  wagon-tires  stood 
at  one  side,  its  surface  curiously  scarred  by  the  hot  rims 
which  had  rested  on  it.  At  one  end  of  the  shop  was  a 
path  deeply  worn  in  the  clayey  soil  that  led  to  a  spring 
half-way  down  the  bank. 

Despite  the  incongruity  of  its  surroundings,  there  was 
a  certain  order  in  their  arrangement  and  a  sort  of  neat- 


172  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

ness  about  the  shop  which  at  once  impressed  the 
beholder.  Chris  Barclay  was  termed  "  fussy  "  about  his 
shop,  and  it  was  said  to  be  not  less  his  inclination  than 
the  wish  of  his  wife,  who  was  a  noted  housekeeper,  that 
had  separated  the  shop  by  the  width  of  the  sharp,  nar- 
row valley  from  the  neat  white  house,  with  its  green 
blinds,  and  yard  filled  with  blossoming  shrubs  and  sur- 
rounded by  a  white  picket-fence.  That  was  his  wife's 
domain  ;  the  shop  upon  the  opposite  hill  was  his.  He 
never  crossed  the  valley  between,  with  his  apron  on. 
If  his  wife  came  to  the  shop,  as  she  sometimes  did,  it 
was  always  as  a  guest ;  and  if  she  sat  for  an  hour  or  two 
upon  the  end  of  the  high  forge  away  from  the  sparks  and 
watched  her  stalwart  husband  at  his  work,  it  was  simply 
because  there  was  no  other  neighbor  whom  she  cared  to 
visit  at  that  time.  She  asked  no  questions  about  his 
business,  and  never  presumed  to  look  into  the  smutty 
dog-eared  account-book  in  his  desk,  until  he  brought  it 
home  at  night  and  read  to  her  while  she  posted  the 
entries  in  the  ledger.  It  was  said  in  the  neighborhood 
that  it  had  been  mutually  agreed  between  the  husband 
and  the  wife  that  he  should  be  the  master  upon  one  hill 
and  she  the  mistress  on  the  other,  and  that  the  rugged 
blacksmith,  who  was  so  dictatorial  at  the  shop,  was 
meek  enough  in  the  domain  of  the  sharp-tongued  little 
woman  who  looked  after  his  earnings,  and  made  his 
home  a  model  noted  for  miles  around  for  its  neatness. 

It  was  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Chris  Barclay 
had  been  working  with  tremendous  energy  all  day.  It 
was  yet  early  when  he  had  returned  from  the  camp, 
and  he  at  once  begun  a  job  of  heavy  forging  which  had 
been  waiting  in  the  shop  for  some  time.  He  had 
slashed  and  pounded  all  day  long,  blowing  the  bellows 
fiercely,  and  making  the  sparks  fly  and  the  anvil  ring 
beneath  his  blows  as  if  he  were  doing  to  the  death  some 


''Out  of  the  East:'  173 

enemy  whose  overthrow  was  to  be  the  price  of  his  own 
salvation.  So  deeply  had  he  been  absorbed  in  his  work, 
that  he  had  only  taken  time  to  run  across  the  hollow 
and  bolt  the  excellent  dinner  his  wife  had  prepared, 
without  waiting  for  a  moment's  conversation  afterward. 
It  was  his  way  of  thinking.  He  was  trying  to  deter- 
mine what  it  was  best  to  do,  and'  how  it  had  best  be 
done  ;  and  when  the  doctor's  gig  came  in  sight,  he  had 
thought  it  all  out  and  determined  on  the  course  he 
would  pursue.  The  sweat  was  pouring  down  his  face, 
and  the  long,  black  hairs  upon  his  arms  clung  close  to 
their  damp  surfaces,  as  he  stood  in  the  shop-door  and 
hailed  the  passing  physician.  So  intent  was  he  upon 
his  purpose,  that  he  paid  no  attention  to  the  doctor's 
protest  or  his  inquiry. 

"Just  wait  till  I  get  some  of  the  smut  oflf,"  he  said, 
glancing  at  his  bare  arms,  "  and  I'll  go  with  you." 

"  But  really,  Chris,  I  don't  see — " 

"  You  haven't  got  anything  more  important  on  hand — 
you  couldn't  have,"  the  blacksmith  interrupted,  gravely. 

"  But  what  is  it  you  want  ?"  asked  the  doctor, 
impatiently. 

"  Do  you  see  that,  doctor  ?" 

Barclay  pointed  to  the  square  and  compass  burned 
into  the  door,  upon  his  right,  as  he  spoke.  There  was  a 
sort  of  unconscious  dignity,  amounting  almost  to  com- 
mand, in  the  gesture,  and  a  peculiar  significance  in  the 
tone  in  which  he  directed  attention  to  the  rude  hier- 
oglyph. 

"  I  see  it — of  course,"  the  doctor  answered,  with  a 
look  of  inquiry  upon  his  face. 

"  Well,  I  want  you  should  go  with  me,  without  asking 
any  questions,  and  I  want  you  to  go  now"  said  the 
smith,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  had  a  right  to  demand 
consideration.     "  I'll  take  all  the  responsibility." 


174  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

"  Oh,  if  )'ou  put  it  on  that  ground — an  order  out  of 
the  East — why,  I'll  go,  of  course,"  responded  the  doc- 
tor, with  a  look  of  surprise  and  a  half -shrug-  of  his  fat 
shoulders. 

"  Of  course,"  repeated  the  smith,  smiling  signifi- 
cantly. "  Well,  you  may  just  drive  through  the  gate 
down  there  and  go  on  up  the  lane.  It's  a  good  road 
and  I'll  overtake  you  in  a  jiffy — by  the  time  you  get  to 
the  bars,  anyhow." 

The  doctor  was  evidently  inclined  to  make  further 
inquiry,  but  the  blacksmith  pointed  again,  with  an 
emphatic  gesture,  to  the  mystic  symbol,  and  with 
another  shrug  and  a  submissive  "  All  right !"  the  physi- 
cian turned  his  gig  and  drove  down  the  hill.  A  moment 
after,  Chris  Barclay  left  the  shop,  his  coat  upon  his  arm 
and  his  gun  upon  his  shoulder,  and  crossed  the  hollow 
to  his  house. 

"  What  on  earth  have  you  and  the  doctor  got  on  hand 
to-day  ?"  asked  his  wife,  good-naturedly,  as  he  entered 
the  yard.  "  This  morning  you  had  a  good  hour's  chat 
out  in  the  road,  and  now  you've  got  him  hid  away  down 
there  in  the  hollow.  What  are  you  going  to  do  with 
him,  anyhow  ?  'Pears  to  me  there's  something  mighty 
mysterious  going  on  to-day." 

"  Just  a  bit  of  Masonic  business,"  answered  her  hus- 
band, lifting  his  eyebrows  meaningly.  "  The  doctor's 
going  to  take  another  degree,  you  see,  and  I'm  coaching 
him  up  a  little." 

'*  Where  are  you  going  to  do  it  ?  Is  he  coming  here  T' 
asked  the  wife,  apprehensively  glancing  back  from  the 
doorway  where  she  stood,  to  see  that  the  room  was  in 
order. 

"  We'll  just  step  up  into  the  edge  of  the  clearing," 
was  tfie  reply  ;  "  where  there  won't  be  no  eavesdroppers, 
you  know." 


''Out  of  the  Eastr  175 

"  Might  just  as  well  come  here,"  urged  the  wife  ; 
"there's  the  parlor  that  you  can  have  all  to  yourselves, 
just  as  well  as  not.  I  shall  be  getting  supper,  and  won't 
disturb  you  the  least  bit." 

If  there  was  one  thing  Melinda  Barclay  was  prouder  of 
than  anything  else,  it  was  the  fact  that  her  husband  was 
the  brightest  Mason  in  all  the  region  round.  The  nearest 
lodge  was  ten  miles  away,  but  he  had  been  the  Master 
for  years,  and  many  mysterious  conferences  had  been 
held  at  the  house  as  well  as  at  the  shop,  during  that 
time.  "  Masonic  business  "  was  as  sacred  a  thing  in  her 
eyes  as  it  could  have  been  in  her  husband's,  and  the 
wife  of  the  Worshipful  Master  would  have  protected 
the  mysteries  of  the  craft  from  profanation  with  as 
much  fidelity  as  the  most  devoted  Tiler  that  ever 
guarded  with  drawn  sword  the  approach  to  the  lodge. 
She  never  objected  to  the  waste  of  time  or  to  her  own 
careful  exclusion  from  its  secrets.  The  fact  that  it 
brought  honor  and  recognition  to  her  husband  was 
enough  for  her.  The  truth  is,  that,  though  she  was 
sharp-tongued,  and  so  capable  and  positive  that  people 
said  of  her  that  "  the  gray  mare  "  was  the  "  better  horse" 
in  the  domestic  span,  she  was  inordinately  vain  of  her 
stalwart  husband's  strength  and  popularity.  While  she 
twisted  him  easily  about  her  finger  as  to  domestic  mat- 
ters, she  knew,  and  it  gave  her  pleasure  to  know,  that 
there  was  a  point  beyond  which  she  could  not  go.  So 
she  never  questioned  anything  he  did  masonically,  any 
more  than  if  she  had  taken  an  obligation  of  secrecy 
and  obedience  herself. 

"  Might  just  as  well  have  it  as  tramp  way  down  to 
the  clearing  and  back  in  the  hot  sun,"  she  added,  per- 
suasively, seeing  him  hesitate. 

The  truth  was,  he  was  hunting  for  an  excuse,  and  her 
words  gave  him  the  clue. 


176  A  Sojt  of  Old  Harry. 

"  It's  too  hot  to  sit  in  a  close  room,  Melinda,"  he 
replied,  "  and  of  course,  we'd  have  to  keep  the  windows 
shut,  though  I  know  there  wouldn't  be  no  need  with 
only  you  about ;  but  one  can't  be  too  careful  about  such 
things." 

"  I  s'pose  not,"  regretfully. 

"  Besides,  the  doctor  has  drove  on  down  the  lane  and 
is  waiting  for  me  at  the  bars,  I  expect,  right  now." 

He  started  off  with  long,  hasty  strides  in  the  direction 
of  the  bam,  smiling  and  winking  to  himself  as  soon  as 
his  back  was  turned. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  your  gun  ?"  she 
called  after  him,  banteringly,  from  the  doorstep.  He 
still  had  it  on  his  shoulder,  having  forgotten  to  leave  it 
at  the  house  as  he  had  intended. 

"  Keep  off  CO  wins  and  eavesdroppers,"  was  the  laugh- 
ing reply. 

"  How  long  'fore  you'll  be  back  ?" 

"  'Bout  an  hour  or  an  hour  and  a  half,  I  should  say  ; 
the  doctor's  in  a  great  hurry." 

"Fudge  I  That's  always  his  way  ;  well,  I'll  split  the 
difference  and  have  supper  ready  in  an  hour  and  a 
quarter.  Tell  him  if  he  don't  stop  and  take  supper 
with  us,  I'll  take  the  broomstick  to  him  till  he  won't  be 
able  to  ride  the  goat  for  a  month," 

"  All  right,"  the  husband  called  back,  jocularly,  as  he 
hastened  down  the  path  to  the  lane. 

Once  a  day  for  a  week  afterward  the  doctor's  gig 
turned  in  at  Barclay's  lane,  usually  at  night,  so  that 
even  the  good  wife  was  unaware  of  the  fact ;  and  for  a 
week,  also,  Chris  Barclay  was  away  from  home  the  bet- 
ter part  of  every  night  and  very  frequently  during  the 
day,  until  even  his  wife's  reverence  for  "  Masonic  busi- 
ness "  began  to  grow  weak. 

"  Well,  I  declare,  Chris,  1  should  think  you  were  mak- 


"  Out  of  the  East:'  I'jj 

ing  a  wholesale  job  of  it  this  time,  anyhow,"  she  said, 
protestingly,  one  night,  as  he  took  his  hat  preparatory 
to  his  usual  outing. 

"  There's  a  lot  of  fellows  going  out  to  Calif orny,  'cross 
the  plains,  you  know,"  he  answered,  deprecatingly,  "in 
a  week  or  two,  and  they  want  to  be  finished  off  before 
they  go.  Might  be  worth  a  good  deal  to  'em  out  there, 
you  see." 

"  I  s'pose  it  might,"  said  the  good  woman  resignedly. 

The  blacksmith's  eyes  twinkled,  but  he  showed  no 
signs  of  regret  for  the  deception  he  was  practicing  on 
his  trustful  spouse. 

As  the  reader  will  have  surmised,  the  doctor's  mys- 
terious visits  were  made  to  the  training-camp,  where 
Horace  Goodwin  was  slowly  recovering  from  his  hurt. 
In  strict  compliance  with  the  blacksmith's  injunction,  he 
had  asked  no  questions  except  such  as  pertained  to  the 
injury  itself.  He  did  this  the  more  willingly  because  he 
felt  satisfied  that  his  own  knowledge  of  the  facts,  if  not 
more  correct,  was  at  least  more  definite  than  that  of  his 
friend,  and  he  anticipated  great  pleasure  in  revealing 
the  truth  some  time  to  a  choice  circle  of  cronies,  to  the 
confusion  of  the  blacksmith,  whose  cumbrous  shrewdness 
had,  he  thought,  been  so  unnecessary.  Day  by  day,  as 
he  pursued  his  accustomed  round  along  the  country 
roads.  Doctor  Kelsey  chuckled  to  himself  as  he  thought 
how,  during  some  call  from  labor  to  refreshment,  he 
would  make  the  lodge-room  echo  with  laughter  at  the 
Worshipful  Master's  expense,  by  relating  to  the  appre- 
ciative craftsmen  the  story  of  this  adventure. 

During  this  interval,  having  seen  nothing  of  Sam, 
the  doctor  did  not  suspect  his  presence,  and  naturally 
arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  Chris  had  brought  Good- 
win to  this  place  after  he  was  wounded,  simply  from 
apprehension  for  his  friend's  safety,  or  else  that  Good- 


A   Son  of  Old  Hai'jy 


win  had  fled  here  under  the  idea  that  he  was  pursued, 
and  that  Barclay  had  found  him  afterward.  This 
impression  had  been  strengthened  by  Barclay's  state- 
ment that  Horace  had  been  delirious  ever  since  he  first 
saw  him  after  his  injury.  The  ball,  entering  the  mus- 
cles of  the  back  below  the  shoulder-blade,  had  passed 
around  under  the  arm  and  torn  its  way  out  through  the 
pectoral  muscles.  The  wound  was  a  serious  one,  there- 
fore, not  from  primary  but  from  secondary  effects. 
Thanks  to  the  vigor  and  health  of  the  patient,  the 
unpleasant  symptoms  had  yielded  readily  to  treatment, 
and  as  it  was  probable  that  Horace  would  soon  be 
removed  to  other  quarters,  the  doctor  took  occasion  at 
the  first  visit  he  made  unaccompanied  by  Barclay,  to 
give  his  patient  a  statement  of  what  he  himself  had 
learned  in  regard  to  his  injury.  He  was  seated  upon  a 
sap-bucket  which  he  found  bottom  upward  beside  the 
couch  of  hay.  His  patient  seemed  rather  more  excited 
and  feverish  than  he  had  expected  to  find  him.  This 
was  but  natural,  since  the  doctor's  unexpected  arrival 
had  allowed  Sam  only  a  moment  to  conceal  himself. 
Half  to  soothe  his  patient's  agitation  and  half  to  relieve 
his  own  sense  of  duty,  the  physician  told  him  what  the 
reader  already  knows  of  Dan  Marvin's  connection  with 
the  events  of  the  night  on  which  Goodwin  had  received 
his  hurt. 


CHAPTER    V. 

CHRIS    BUYS    HIS  WIFE    A  PRESENT. 

"  That's  the  whole  story/'  said  the  doctor  in  conclu- 
sion. "  I  haven't  lisped  a  single  Word  of  it  to  a  single 
soul.  You  and  I  and  his  mother  are  the  only  ones  that 
know  anything  about  it." 

"  I  am  afraid  Kincaid  had  a  hand  in  the  matter,"  said 
the  other,  half  to  himself. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  responded  the  doctor, 
cautiously.  "  I  thought  I  ought  to  tell  you  about  Dan  ; 
he's  been  punished  pretty  thoroughly." 

"  His  mother's  a  good  woman,"  said  Horace,  medita- 
tively. 

"  She  thinks" you  led  Dan  into  bad  ways." 

"  He  didn't  need  any  leading." 

"  His  father  wasn't  of  much  account." 

"  Not  a  bad  man  ;  he  taught  me  to  play  the  violin. 
Dan  isn't  a  bit  like  him." 

"  Queer,  isn't  it,"  continued  the  doctor,  musingly, 
"  how  good  lives  generate  bad  ones,  and  bad  lives  give 
forth  good  ones  ?  I  suppose  somewhere  along  the  line 
of  his  descent  are  to  be  found  the  qualities  that  go  to 
make  up  that  bull-necked,  sullen,  revengeful  cub.  He 
was  probably  lying  hid  somewhere  in  his  parents' 
natures,  but  nobody  would  imagine  such  a  thing.     You 


i8o  A  Sou  of  Old  Harry. 

can't  guess  the  qualities  of  a  man's  offspring  as  you 
do  that  of  a  horse." 

"  Perhaps  because  you  don't  know  his  pedigree  as  far 
back,  nor  understand  their  quaHties  as  well  as  you  do 
the  horse's." 

"  There  may  be  something  in  that,  but  it  is  not  enough 
to  account  for  all  that  we  see.  Morally  and  physically 
man  is  an  anomaly  among  animals.  The  children  of 
the  deaf  hear,  of  the  blind  are  clear-sighted  ;  the  hunch- 
back has  straight  children  ;  Apollo  has  crooked  off- 
spring ;  but  oftenest  of  all,  the  good  have  bad  and  the 
bad  good  children.  I  think  it  must  be  the  surroundings 
— what  a  child  sees  and  hears  and  thinks — that  give 
prominence  to  inherited  qualities  and  determine  the 
character  of  every  life.  That's  my  hobby,  you  know  ; 
inheritance  plus  environment  makes  the  man." 

"  Very  probably  you're  right,"  said  Horace,  thinking 
of  the  red  spur  on  his  heel. 

"  You  and  Seth,  now,"  continued  the  doctor ;  "  just 
as  unlike  as  two  men  could  be.  I  s'pose  responsibility 
— having  to  take  a  man's  part  when  he  was  young — 
sobered  him  ;  and  you  never  had  anything  t  o  settle 
you." 

"  Very  likely." 

"  He  married,  too.  That's  what  you  ought  to  have 
done.  Queer,  a  man  so  fond  of  society  should  not  have 
even  a  sweetheart.  I  think  I  shall  prescribe  a  wife  for 
you,  as  soon  as  you  get  over  this." 

The  doctor  spoke  banteringly. 

"  No  use,"  answered  the  other,  smiling,  and  trying  to 
turn  on  his  rude  bed.  "  How's  Susan  getting  along, 
doctor  ?"  he  asked,  after  a  moment's  silence. 

"  First-rate.  It  seems  a  queer  thing  to  say,  but  I 
believe  the  trouble  that's  come  since  her  husband's 
death  has  been  a  good  thing  for  her — taken  her  mind 


Chris  Buys  His    Wife  a  PresenL       i8i 

off  her  affliction,  you  know.  Such  things  dull  the  edge 
of  grief — especially  with  women." 

"  And  Hubert  ?" 

"  O,  he's  all  right.  I  should  hardly  go  to  see  him  any 
more  if  it  wasn't  to  let  them  know  about  you.  They'll 
be  mighty  glad  to  see  you  around  once  more,  I  can  tell 
you  that." 

Horace  Goodwin  laid  with  his  eyes  closed  and  made 
no  reply.  He  could  hear  the  squirrels  hopping  about 
in  the  dry  leaves,  and  the  bees  droning  in  the  verdant 
stillness  of  the  summer  noon-tide  about  the  camp. 
Horace  Goodwin  was  dimly  conscious  of  these  drowsy 
delights,  but  it  was  the  thought  of  his  brother's  wife 
which  brought  the  look  of  content  the  physician  noted 
on  his  face. 

"  The  boy  got  out  on  the  steps  yesterday  to  pet  the 
colt,"  continued  the  doctor. 

"  The  colt  ?    Who  brought  him  out  ?" 

"  It  was  that  girl  of  Kincaid's,  The  hired  man  daren't 
go  into  the  stable  ;  but  she  said  the  colt  wouldn't  hurt 
her  ;  and  sure  enough  he  didn't,  She  led  him  down  to 
the  house,  and  it  was  curious  to  see  the  creature  rub 
and  fuss  about  that  boy.  But  he  went  back  all  right 
when  she  started — swinging  his  head  from  side  to  side 
in  that  queer,  poky  way  of  his,  as  if  he  never  thought 
of  mischief." 

"  I'm  glad  she  came  to  see  Hubert." 

"  O,  she's  there  about  all  the  time,  now  he's  getting 
better.  I  never  saw  two  young  things  so  wrapt  up  in 
each  other.  I  believe  it  would  about  kill  them  to  be 
separated.  He  talked  about  her  all  the  time  he  wah 
delirious,  and  she  wouldn't  go  to  school,  but  just  staid 
at  home  to  watch  for  me  and  ask  how  he  was,  till  he  got 
well  enough  so  that  she  could  visit  him." 

"  Deely  certainly  is  a  nice  girl." 


1 82  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

"  There's  another  freak,  How'd  she  come  to  be  what 
she  is  ?" 

"  Give  it  up,  I  s'pose,  as  you  say,  it's  somewhere  in 
the  blood,  just  as  that  colt's  temper  is  ;  but  how  it 
comes  to  crop  out  in  just  that  form  I  don't  know," 

"  Neither  do  I  ;  but  she's  a  jewel,  no  mistake.  I  must 
be  going  now.     What  do  you  think  about  Dan  ?" 

"  I  s'pose  if  Kincaid  was  mixed  up  in  the  matter,  it 
would  all  come  out  if  there  was  a  trial  ?" 

"  Probably." 

"  That  would  just  about  kill  Deely." 

"  It  would  be  pretty  bad  for  her." 

"  How's  Dan  getting  on  ?" 

"  He's  able  to  sit  up." 

"  If  he'll  tell  who  was  with  him — " 

"  He  won't  do  that,"  interrupted  the  doctor. 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  he's  man  enough  not  to  ;  that's  some 
credit  to  him,  anyhow." 

"  It  might  lead  right  up  to  Kincaid  if  he  did,"  sug- 
gestively. 

"  You're  right  there,"  responded  Horace,  with  a 
troubled  look. 

"  King  Marsh  has  been  mighty  subdued  and  anxious 
since  Chris  began  to  talk  about  getting  out  a  warrant." 

"  A  warrant — what  for  ?" 

"  Chris  pretends  to  think  you're  dead,  and  that  he's 
got  a  clue  to  them  that  killed  you.  He's  quite  a 
changed  man  lately — Chris,  I  mean.  His  fire's  out  most 
of  the  time,  his  shop  shut  up,  and  he  sits  around  the 
corners  and  talks  and  hints  from  morning  till  night 
almost.  He'll  lose  all  his  custom  if  he  goes  on  this  way 
much  longer.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  any  day  to  hear 
there  was  a  warrant  out  against  Dan.  Hank  Welby, 
the  constable,  you  know,  spoke  to  me  about  it  to-day. 


Chris  Buys  His    Wife  a  Present.        183 

He  don't  know  much,  but  he's  an  awfully  determined 
man." 

"  Are  they  hunting  after  Sam  yet  ?"  asked  Horace, 
with  an  effort  to  appear  unconcerned. 

"Mosely's  at  Kincaid's." 

"  Come  to  close  the  trade  for  the  colt  ?" 

"  I  s'pose  so.  He  wanted  to  talk  with  Susan  about 
the  matter,  but  she  said  she  wouldn't  do  anything  till 
you  come  back.  He  asked  her  if  she  thought  you  were 
alive,  and  she  said  she  did  ;  and  she  guessed  the  time 
would  come  when  some  folks  would  wish  you  were  dead, 
more'n  they  did  now.  He  said  he'd  wait  a  couple  of 
weeks ;  and  she  agreed,  if  you  weren't  back  by  that 
time,  she'd  take  out  letters  and  'tend  to  the  matter  herself- 
There's  a  great  deal  of  talk  about  the  matter,  'specially 
since  Chris  put  a  padlock  on  the  stable-door  and  made 
the  hired  man  sleep  in  the  barn  with  a  gun.  It  seems 
to  worry  Kincaid  a  good  deal. 

"  Besides  that,  he  and  Mosely  had  a  falling  out  about 
the  nigger.  It  seems  Kincaid  gave  a  bond  with  security 
to  take  him  back  to  Kentucky,  but  when  Mosely  draws 
it  on  him,  and  demands  his  nigger,  or  the  money,  Kin- 
caid goes  to  a  lawyer,  and,  after  taking  advice,  tells 
Mosely  his  bond  ain't  good  for  anything." 

"  Ain't  good  ?" 

"  That's  what  he  said  ;  and  when  Mosely  come  back 
from  Kentucky,  where  he  took  advice,  too,  he  says  the 
same  thing.  You  see  he  consented  to  let  the  nigger  go 
into  a  free  State,  and  that,  it  seems,  makes  him  free,  if 
he  chooses  to  take  advantage  of  it,  which  it  appears  he 
did,  and  that,  they  say,  invalidates  the  bond,  it  being  a 
contract  that  a  man  shouldn't  do  what  he'd  a  clear 
right  to  do  under  the  law  of  the  State.  So  Mosely  said 
that,  if  he  couldn't  get  it  out  of  Kincaid  by  law,  he'd 
have  to  get  it  some  other  way.     He  didn't  say  how,  but 


184  A  Son  of  Old  Harry, 

just  lay  around  and  smoked  in  that  lazy  Southern 
fashion,  winking  his  great  big  eyes  as  contentedly  as  a 
toad  that  has  swallowed  a  lightning-bug,  till  Kincaid 
got  real  nervous.     So  yesterday  they  settled." 

"  King  paid  him  off,  I  s'pose  ?" 

"  Not  exactly.  I  believe  the  "bond  was  fifteen  htin- 
dred  dollars,  which  Mosely  says  is  just  about  a  fair 
price  for  the  nigger.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  He  don't 
look  as  if  he'd  weigh  more'n  a  hundred,  and  fifteen  dol- 
lars a  pound  seems  a  pretty  good  price  for  any  sort  of 
meat,  as  Hank  Welby  says ;  but  Mosely  claims  the 
boy'd  bring  it  any  day,  under  the  hammer." 

"  A  good  jockey  is  worth  'most  any  money." 

"  So  I  s'pose  ;  but  there  was  the  chance  of  getting 
him  back,  and  the  bond  not  good — at  any  rate  they  set- 
tled— nobody  knows  just  how.  Mosely  takes  back  the 
Gray  Eagle,  for  one  thing,  and  most  people  believe  that 
Kincaid  loses  what  he'd  paid  on  him  and  gets  back  his 
notes  for  the  balance." 

"That  wouldn't  be  a  bad  trade — for  Mosely." 

"  Well,  Kincaid  says  he  don't  ever  want  to  see  a 
crack  horse  again  ;  and  some  say  he  had  to  promise  his 
wife  never  to  own  another  or  the  old  woman  was  going 
to  desert.     He'd  be  bad  off  without  her,  shrewd  as  he  is." 

"  So  Mosely  has  got  pay  for  his  nigger  and  still  owns 
him  ?" 

"  Oh,  no  ;  he  sold  him  after  that." 

"  Sold  him  ?  In  a  free  State,  too  !  I'd  like  to  know 
who  bought  him." 

"  You'd  never  guess." 

"  Anybody  round  here  ?" 

The  doctor  nodded. 

Horace  shook  his  head,  after  a  moment's  thought. 

"  Give  it  up,  do  you  ?  Thought  you  would.  Well,  it 
was  nobody  but  Chris  Barclay." 


Chris  Buys  His    Wife  a  Present.        185 

"  Chris  Barclay  !"  exclaimed  Horace,  attempting  to 
rise  in  his  excitement,  and  sinking  back  with  a  groan. 

"  Exactly.  Chris  was  sitting  on  the  counter  when 
Mosely  and  Kincaid  came  out  of  the  back  room  and 
said  they'd  settled.  Kincaid  showed  the  bond  around, 
and  after  they'd  all  seen  it,  tore  it  up.  Then  some 
questions  was  asked  about  who  owned  the  nigger,  and 
Mosely  said  it  still  belonged  to  him.  He  s'posed  the 
little  cuss  was  in  Canada  by  this  time,  but  he  held  the 
title  if  he  didn't  ever  see  a  hide  or  hair  of  him  again. 
Then  Chris  asked,  in  his  dry  way,  if  he  didn't  want  to 
sell  him. 

"  'Do  you  want  to  buy  ?'  asked  Mosely,  with  one  of 
his  ten-minute  winks. 

"  Chris  said  his  old  woman  had  always  claimed  she'd 
like  to  own  a  nigger,  and  if  he  could  get  one  cheap,  he 
thought  he  might  like  to  buy.  Of  course,  everybody 
laughed. 

"  *  Take  him  running  ?'  asked  Mosely. 

"  *  Of  course,'  said  Chris.     *  S'pose  I'd  have  to.' 

" '  Won't  ask  to  have  him  delivered  ?' 

"  '  No.' 

" '  You  take  all  risk  for  failure  of  title  made  in  this 
State  ?' 

" '  I  want  a  good  title,  whether  I  get  the  nigger  or 
not,'  says  Chris. 

"  '  I  can't  give  that,'  Mosely  said.  *  All  I  can  give  is  a 
quit-claim.' 

"  '  Well,  what'll  you  take  for  that .?' 

"  They  bantered  a  while,  and  the  upshot  of  it  was 
that  Chris  gave  him  a  hundred  dollars,  and  took  a  deed 
to  the  nigger  and  a  contract  that  Mosely  should  make 
out  another  when  he  got  back  to  Kentucky." 

"  I'm  glad  of  that,"  said  Horace,  with  a  sigh  of 
relief. 


1 86  A  So7i  of  Old  Harry. 

"  But  wasn't  it  a  queer  thing  for  Chris  to  do  ?" 

"  It  would  seem  so,"  answered  Horace,  absently. 
"  How  long  before  I  can  be  taken  home,  doctor  ?"  he 
asked,  after  a  moment's  silence. 

"  Oh,  in  the  course  of  two  or  three  days,  I  should 
think." 

**  Well,  doctor — if  Dan  Marvin  should  take  it  into  his 
head  that — that  he'd  better  go  out  west — to  California 
or  somewhere — before  I  get  around  I — well,  I  don't 
know  asthere'dbe  any  harm  done." 

**  I'm  sure  his  mother  would  be  glad  ;  she'd  probably 
go  with  him." 

"  I  don't  want  to  know  anything  about  it,"  said  the 
sick  man  with  a  gesture  of  aversion.  "  I  s'pose  I'll  have 
to  tell  all  about  the  matter  as  soon  as  it's  known  I'm 
above  ground,  and  the  less  I  know  about  his  getting 
away,  the  better."  * 

"  Naturally  ;  and  for  my  part  I'd  like  to  know  a  little 
about  how  you  got  hurt,  before  I'd  be  willing  to  give 
any  such  hint.  How  did  it  happen,  anyhow?  How 
did'you  come  to  be  down  the  road  at  that  time  of  night  ? 
How  did  you  get  there  and  how  did  you  get  here  ?" 

"  You  are  sure  Mosely  made  out  a  bill  of  sale  for  Sam 
to  Barclay  ?" 

"  O,  perfectly  sure  ;  saw  it  myself  ;  in  fact,  am  one  of 
the  witnesses.  Squire  Kendall  drew  it  up,  and  Mosely 
handed  over  the  bill  of  sale  he  got  of  the  man  he  bought 
the  boy  of  when  he  was  a  baby.  It's  all  square  and 
straight.  Barclay  owns  the  nigger  out  and  out — so  far 
as  Mosely's  deed  can  give  title  in  this  State,  that  is." 

"  Sam  !" 

There  was  a  rustling  under  the  hay  in  the  great  store- 
trough,  and  the  little  jockey  rose  up  before  the  aston- 
ished gaze  of  Doctor  Kelsey. 

"  It's  all  right,  Sam,"  said  Horace.     "  You  heard  what 


Chris  Buys  His    Wife  a  Present.       187 

the  doctor  said.  You  are  free  now,  though  Barclay  has 
got  a  bill  of  sale  for  you.  Nobody  can  interfere  with 
you,  now,  and  Chris  is  the  last  man  that  would  ever 
care  to." 

If  any  one  had  expected  any  clamorous  demonstration 
from  the  man  thus  suddenly  relieved  from  apprehen- 
sion of  a  return  to  bondage,  he  would  have  been  disap- 
pointed. It  is  a  singular  fact  that  liberty  was  so  stu- 
pendous and  overwhelming  a  fact  to  the  African  slave, 
that  when  it  came,  it  seemed  invariably  to  paralyze  the 
power  of  immediate  expression.  Words  were  inade- 
quate to  voice  the  rapture  of  a  newly  freed  bondman. 
What  Sam  Mosely  did  was  neither  to  shout  nor  laugh  ; 
but  after  gazing  a  moment  at  the  doctor  with  a  stare 
almost  as  incredulous  as  his  own,  his  face  grew  pale,  his 
limbs  trembled,  and,  with  a  half-inarticulate  moan,  he 
sank  down  sobbing  hysterically,  upon  his  knees  in  the 
trough  where  he  had  been  hidden. 

"  Well,  I  declare  !"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  springing  to 
his  feet,  "  where  did^w/  come  from  ?" 

**  Now,  you  see,  doctor,"  continued  Horace,  after  he 
had  enjoyed  for  a  moment  his  friend's  astonishment, 
"  the  reason  so  much  caution  was  necessary  in  commun- 
icating with  you.  So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  the  mat- 
ter is  very  simple.  I  was  watching  with  Hubert  that 
night — had  been  doing  so  for  several  nights  before,  you 
know — and  must  have  fallen  asleep  in  my  chair.  After 
a  time  I  heard  the  horses  whinnying — I  had  heard  them 
for  some  time,  I  suppose,  but  it  had  not  fully  roused  me 
from  the  heavy  sleep  I  was  in.  When  I  did  finally 
wake  I  started  up,  fully  aware  that  something  was  wrong. 
The  colt  in  the  barn  was  trumpeting  like  mad,  and  just 
as  I  got  to  the  door,  I  heard  the  Queen  answer  from 
the  hollow  down  near  the  road.  I  knew  at  once  that 
somebody  had  stolen  her,  but  could  not  imagine  why 


1 88  A   Sou   of  Old  Harry. 

they  had  not  taken  the  colt  also.  Then  I  thought  it 
was  a  trick  of  Kincaid's  ;  and  calling  Susan  to  stay  with 
the  boy,  I  started  out  in  my  slippers  with  only  a  round- 
about on,  to  see  what  could  be  done.  As  I  went  out  of 
the  door,  I  caught  up  the  heavy  rawhide  whip  the  boy 
had  carried  in  the  race.  It  was  the  only  weapon  I  could 
lay  hands  on  just  then." 

"  Not  a  bad  one,  either,"  interposed  the  doctor. 

"  No  ;  it  served  well  enough.  I  had  a  notion  that 
whoever  had  got  the  mare  would  not  go  very  fast  at 
first,  as  it  might  attract  attention  to  go  running  by  the 
three  or  four  neighbors'  houses  just  south  of  ours,  and 
thought  if  I  could  get  near  her  and  whistle,  she  would 
make  the  one  that  rode  her  trouble  enough,  so  that  I 
could  get  a  chance  to  use  the  whip  before  he  could  sub- 
due her.  You  know  I  am  a  pretty  good  runner, 
and  the  slippers  were  light  and  made  no  noise.  When 
I  got  to  the  brow  of  the  hill  just  below  Matthews's,  I 
could  see  them  about  half  way  down  the  slope.  The 
moon  had  gone  down,  but  it  was  bright  starlight.  To 
my  surprise  there  were  two  of  them,  and  they  were 
walking  their  horses  quite  slowly.  I  jumped  over  into 
the  orchard  and  ran  down  the  hill  until  I  was  nearly 
opposite  them.  The  mare  called  just  then —  I  suppose 
she  winded  me — and  I  heard  one  of  them  give  her  a 
lick.  She  never  would  stand  a  blow,  and  I  knew  this 
would  be  a  good  time  to  interfere.  Climbing  the  fence 
into  the  road,  I  put  my  fingers  in  my  mouth  and 
whistled — not  once,  but  a  dozen  times.  You  know  how 
far  that  whistle  can  be  heard  ?" 

"  I've  heard  it  a  mile  or  more,  over  and  often." 

"Well,  the  mare  heard  it,  then,  and  there  was  evi- 
dently a  squabble  with  her.  The  man  who  rode  her 
fell  off — at  least  I  heard  something  fall — and  clutching 
my  whip  I  ran  towards  them.     When  I  got  near,  I  saw 


Chris  Buys  His    Wife  a  Present.       189 

. e^ 

there  was  a  man  on  her  and  another  hanging  on  to  the 
bridle.  I  hadn't  more  than  four  or  five  rods  to  run,  and 
in  a  minute  I  was  among  them  hitting  right  and  left, 
first  one  man  and  then  the  other,  and  finally  laying  the 
whip  over  the  other  horse.  They've  all  got  my  mark 
on  them  yet,  wherever  they  are.  The  horse  reared 
when  I  struck  him,  which  isn't  any  wonder,  considering 
that  there's  nearly  half  a  pound  of  shot  braided  into 
that  cracker.  This  pulled  his  rider,  who  had  hold  of 
the  mare's  rein,  out  of  the  saddle.  lie  let  go  and  she 
turned  towards  me.  I  cut  the  fellow  on  her  over  the 
head  and  face  once  or  twice — perhaps  a  few  more  times 
— literally  beating  him  off  the  saddle  ;  caught  a  grip  ■ 
in  the  mare's  mane  as  she  started  past  me  up  the  hill, 
and  after  running  a  few  steps  beside  her  swung  into  the 
saddle  with  a  whoop.  Just  then  a  shot  was  fired,  and  I 
felt  the  ball  strike  me  under  the  shoulder  blade.  The 
mare  was  going  like  the  wind  by  that  time,  making  just 
lickity-click  for  home.  I  began  to  grow  faint  in  a  min- 
ute and  fell  over  on  her  neck,  just  having  sense  enough 
left  to  take  hold  round  it.  The  next  I  knew  I  was  lying 
here  and  Sam  was  washing  my  face.  I  suppose  the 
mare  was  so  frightened  that  she  kept  right  on  past  the 
stable  up  the  lane  to  the  camp  where  we  have  been  so 
long.     That  is  all  the  story  I've  got  to  tell,  doctor." 

"I  see  !  I  see!"  said  the  doctor  musingly.  "You 
mustn't  talk  any  more  now.  I  oughtn't  to  have  let  you 
say  so  much,  but  I  wanted  to  know.  Even  a  doctor 
has  some  curiosity." 

Horace  smiled.  The  doctor's  curiosity  was  a  thing 
well  understood  by  all  who  knew  him. 

"  Well,  it  was  lucky  for  you  she  came  here,"  continued 
the  physician.  "  I  could  hardly  have  done  better  for 
you  than  the  boy,  and — well,  other  things  might  have 
been  wors§," 


190  A   So7i  of  Old  Harjy. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Horace  ;  "  and  you  see  I  couldn't 
betray  him  after  that." 

"  Of  course  not ;  and  Chris  "knew  all  about  it  ?  The 
rascal — he's  sharper  than  I  thought." 

"  He's  a  mighty  good  man,  doctor,"  said  Horace  sol- 
emnly. 

"  Who  ?  Chris  ?  Well,  I  should  say  !  And  not  half  as 
stupid  as  you  might  imagine,  either,"  responded  the 
doctor,  heartily. 

The  boy  came  out  from  his. hiding  place,  and,  crouch- 
ing down  beside  the  couch,  took  Horace's  hand  tenderly 
in  his  own. 

"  You'll  be  well  taken  care  of,"  said  the  doctor,  sig- 
nificantly, glancing  at  the  boy.  "  Couldn't  I  drive  up 
the  lane  past  Seth's  after  dark,  when  I  come  the  next 
time  ?"  he  asked  as  he  rose  to  go. 

"  Just  as  well  as  not.     Tell  Mosely  I'll  be  out  soon." 

"  All  right  ;  keep  quiet.     Good-bye." 

He  nodded  cheerfully  to  his  patient,  put  on  his  wide- 
brimmed  hat  and  started  to  walk  through  the  woods  to 
Barclay's  lane,  where  he  had  left  his  horse.  It  was  half 
a  mile  away — a  long  walk  for  a  man  of  his  build — and 
he  was  glad  hje  would  not  have  to  make  it  any  more. 
He  had  been  very  circumspect,  and  congratulated  him- 
self that  he  had  saved  the  peace  of  the  neighborhood  by 
his  sagacity.  Years  afterward,  when  he  told  of  his 
adventures,  he  always  laid  stress  on  this  fact. 

"  No,  you  don't,  doctor,"  was  the  unexpected  greeting 
that  worthy  received  as  he  stepped  outside  the  door  of 
the  camp.  It  came  from  the  lips  of  Melinda  Barclay 
whose  trim  figure  was  advancing  from  the  brook,  with 
the  massive  form  of  the  blacksmith  coming  leisurely 
behind  her.  She  looked  saucily  at  the  doctor  from  the 
shadow  of  her  stiff  sun-bonnet  as  she  spoke,  and 
threatened  him  with  an  uplifted  finger, 


Chris  Buys  His   Wife  a  Presoit.        191 

"  Just  you  stand  where  you  are,  sir,  and  tell  me  if  you 
are  not  ashamed  to  deceive  a  poor  trusting  woman  as 
you  and  Chris  hare  been  doing  for  a  week  back.  I 
thought  my  husband  was  overdoing  the  Masonic  busi- 
ness, and  mistrusting  just  what  was  in .  the  wind,  I 
charged  him  with  it.  I  never  allow  him  to  tell  fibs  to  me 
about  anything  but  Masonry,  and  had  no  idea  he  lied  to 
me  about  that  before ;  so  he  had  to  own  up,  and  I  came 
right  down  here  with  him  to  see  if  it  was  true  that  you 
two  heathen  men,  who  talk  so  much  about  charity  and 
the  like,  would  leave  a  poor  sick  man  to  suffer  and  per- 
haps to  die,  without  any  woman  to  tend  on  him  or  look 
after  him.     Ain't  you  ashamed,  now  ?" 

"  But  he  has  been  very  comfortable,"  said  Barclay. 
"  You  know  he  has  Sam  to  wait  on  him." 

"  Sam  !  A  little  nigger  that's  fit  only  to  wait  on  a  sick 
horse.  Comfortable  !  Much  you  know  about  it.  Wait 
until  you're  sick  yourself,  and  then  see  how  you'd  like  to 
have  a  nigger  boy  to  wait  on  you." 

"  Remember  he's  yours  now,"  said  the  doctor  mis- 
chievously. "  I  expect  you'll  keep  him  waiting  on  Chris 
all  the  time." 

"  Waiting  on  Chris  ?  No,  indeed.  I've  got  better  work 
for  him  than  that." 

"  What  "are  you  going  to  have  him  do  ?" 

"  Watch  the  Masons,  sir,  and  let  their  wives  know  how 
they're  deceiving  them.     I  guess  that  '11  keep  him  busy." 

"  I'm  afraid  he'll  run  away  again,  if  you  set  him  at 
that." 

"  I  wouldn't  blame  him,"  was  the  reply.  "  He  seems 
to  be  the.  only  man  around  here  that's  got  right  good 
sense.  He  kxiew  he  didn't  know  enough  to  take  care  of 
a  sick  man.     Just  let  me  see  how  things  are,  anyhow." 

She  stepped  inside  the  door  and  looked  at  Horace,  with 
Sam,  who  had  risen  at  her  entrance,  standing  beside  the 


192  A  Son  of  Old  Ha7'ry. 

couch  and  fanning  him  with  a  green  maple-bough.  The 
bed  was  an  ingenious  contrivance  of  the  blacksmith's — 
a  pile  of  hay  over  which  was  tightly  drawn  and  staked 
a  piece  of  canvas.  Melinda  recognized  some  of  her  own 
bed-clothing,,  also,  about  the  form  of  the  sick  man. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  This  ain't  so  bad,  after  all ;" 
glancing  around  as  she  spoke.  "  I  was  afraid  they  were 
just  letting  you  lie  on  the  ground,  Mr.  Goodwin,  and 
suffer  like  a  brute.  I'm  glad  Chris  had  sense  enough  to 
steal  some  of  my  pillows  and  coverlets  for  you.  Now  I 
know  he's  a  liar,  I  don't  mind  his  being  a  thief,  you  see. 
I  declare,  I'm  glad  you're  getting  along  so  well.  And 
this  is  Sam,  I  s'pose  ?  I'm  'fraid  I'll  never  be  able  to  get 
him  away  from  you,  Mr.  Horace.  He's  taken  such  good 
care  of  you,  I  think  he's  earned  the  right  to  stay  with 
you.     How  would  you  like  that,  Sam  ?" 

"  Suit  me  fust-rate,  missus,"  said  the  boy  with  a  grin, 
ducking  his  head  and  scraping  his  foot. 

"  You'll  let  me  have  him  now  and  then,  to  watch  Chris 
and  the  doctor,  won't  you  ?" 

*•  As  often  as  you  wish,"  laughed  Horace. 

"  Well,  that's  settled  then  ;  I'll  give  him  to  you.  I 
can't  keep  him,  you  know,  because  my  husband's  an 
Abolitionist.  I'm  not ;  I'd  like  to  have  a  nigger  to  wait 
on  me,  but  I  can't  afford  a  fuss  in  the  family.  So  I'll 
let  you  have  him.  What  do  they  give  you  to  eat,  Mr. 
Goodwin?"  the  bustling  housewife  continued.  "Really, 
you  look  half-famished.  What  do  you  suppose  Susan 
would  say  if  she  knew  one  of  her  family  was  being 
starved  right  here  under  her  nose  ?  Where  do  you  keep 
your  things,  anyhow  ?" 

In  her  eagerness  to  explore  the  domestic  arrange- 
ments of  the  camp,  the  good  woman  opened  the  door  in 
the  partition  and  found  herself  confronted  with  the 
inquiring  head  of  the  Queen.     The  consternation  which 


The  Clonds  Roll  By.  193 

was  pictured  on  her  face  drew  roars  of  laughter  from 
the  beholders,  including  the  wounded  man,  whose  mirth, 
though  evidently  painful,  seemed  irrepressible. 

"Well,  I  do  declare  !  In  a  stable  !"  was  her  ejacula- 
tion. 

"  See  here,  madam,"  said  the  doctor,  with  half- 
assumed  gravity,  "  don't  you  see  you  are  agitating  my 
patient  ?     I  must  positively  forbid  such  excitement." 

"Well,  Mr.  Goodwin,"  answered  the  woman,  who 
recognized  the  truth  of  the  doctor's  words,  "  I  won't 
stay  any  longer  now.  You  don't  know  how  glad  I  am 
to  see  you  doing  so  well.  Chris  shall  bring  you  a 
supper,  and,  to-morrow,  perhaps,  I'll  come  and  sit 
awhile  with  you.     We'll  soon  have  you  out  of  this." 

The  jolly  trio — the  doctor,  the  blacksmith  and  his 
sprightly  wife — went  away  ;  their  laughing  banter 
coming  back,  softened  by  the  leafy  wood,  seemed  to 
Horace  Goodwin  the  sweetest  sound  he  had  ever  heard, 
and  almost  before  it  had  died  away  he  sank  into  that 
restful  slumber  which  follows  so  swift  upon  the  least 
exertion,  with  the  hopeful  convalescent. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


THE    CLOUDS    ROLL    BY. 


It  was  as  the  doctor  had  predicted.  The  return  of 
Horace  Goodwin  was  more  like  a  festive  occasion  than 
the  reunion  of  an  afflicted  family.  Not  only  his  safety 
but  the  consciousness  of  relief  from  financial  difficulty, 
gave  an  air  of  contentment  which  had  long  been 
unknown  to  the  members  of  the  household.     When  the 


194  ^  ^on  of  Old  Harry. 

dead  was  spoken  of,  it  was  always  with  tender  regret 
that  he  had  not  lived  to  share  this  unlooked-for  pros- 
perity. The  will  of  the  deceased,  naming  his  brother 
as  executor,  had  to  be  admitted  to  probate  before  the 
colt  could  be  legally  disposed  of.  It  provided  that 
one-third  of  the  purchase  money,  after  paying  off  the 
mortgage  on  the  farm,  should  go  to  Horace,  not  as  a 
bequest,  but  as  compensation  for  his  skill  in  enhancing 
the  animal's  value.  The  will  was  executed  several  days 
before  the  race,  but  the  testators  seemed  to  have  had 
no  doubt  as  to  its  result.  It  was  evident  from  the 
entire  instrument  that  he  fully  understood  his  own 
physical  condition,  and  did  not  expect  to  survive  the 
excitement  of  that  event.  Only  his  strong  will  kept 
him  alive  until  it  was  over,  and  even  this  proved  insuffi- 
cient to  sustain  the  enfeebled  system,  when  the  reaction 
came  and  he  knew  that  his  estate  was  released  from  the 
peril  that  had  impended. 

When  the  trade  was  completed,  the  money  paid,  and 
the  colt  brought  out  to  be  delivered  to  his  new  owner, 
Hubert,  now  quite  recovered,  after  a  last  caress  of  the 
animal  which  had  so  long  been  the  pride  of  his  heart, 
fled  to  his  room  under  the  roof  of  the  unfinished  house 
and  flung  himself  upon  his  bed  in  a  passion  of  tears. 
He  mourned  his  father  and  his  pet.  Who  shall  blame 
him  if  the  two  were  unconsciously  joined  in  his  thought  ? 
He  lay  there  a  long  time.  His  tears  finally  ceased  to 
flow  and  his  sobs  died  away. 

Lying  on  his  back  looking  straight  upward,  he 
watched  the  wasps  building  their  mud-nests  along  the 
rafters  and  dreamed  the  curious  day-dreams  of  boy- 
hood— of  "  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass,  forever 
flushing  round  a  summer  sky."  Already  he  had  buried 
his  past  and  set  his  foot  across  the  threshold  of  the 
future.     What  a  crude  and  narrow  future  his  imagina- 


The   Clouds  Roll  By.  195 

tion  painted  !  There  were  so  few  people  in  it  !  Him- 
self and  Deely  were,  of  course,  its  central  figures.  He 
was  too  much  a  man  to  think  of  himself  as  acting  any- 
thmg  but  a  leading  part  in  his  own  life-drama,  and  too 
much  of  a  boy  to  be  ashamed  of  his  thought.  His 
moiner  and  his  uncle  came  next ;  then,  not  without 
some  compunctions,  Deely's  father  and  mother,  con- 
siderably retired  from  view,  and  then — the  world  ! 
What  a  queer,  misty,  sun-tinted  world  it  was  !  How 
easily  he  settled  the  somewhat  vague  relations  of  his 
little  circle  to  it  and  to  himself  !  Himself  and  Deely, 
rather — for  what  was  his  was  to  be  hers,  of  thought, 
act  and  enjoyment,  "  forever  and  ever,  Amen  !"  He 
repeated  the  words  softly  and  solemnly,  and  wondered 
how  long  "  forever"  might  be,  and  what  the  "  Amen" 
meant. 

"  Jack  I"  a  soft  voice  called,  timidly,  from  the  narrow 
stairway. 

It  hardly  broke  upon  his  day-dream,  for  it  was  Deely's. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  absently,  still  watching  the 
mud-daubers  at  work  beside  the  rafter. 

"  May  I  come  up  ?" 

"  Oh,  is  it  you,  Deely  ?"  rousing  himself  and  sitting  up 
on  the  bed.     "  Why,  yes — of  course." 

There  was  a  rush  up  the  uncarpeted  stair,  and  the 
girl  leaped  upon  the  bed  and  flung  her  arms  about  his 
neck. 

"  Oh,  Jack !" 

This  was  all  she  said — her  tone  told  the  rest.  The 
tears  came  again  to  the  boy's  eyes,  but  he  brushed  them 
aside  and  said,  stoutly  : 

"  'Tain't  no  use  to  feel  bad,  Deely  ;  it  had  to  be — and 
I  guess  I'm  glad  of  it." 

'  *  Of  course  ;  he  brought  a  lot  of  money,  didn't  he  >. 
Pa  says  you'll  soon  be  the  richest  folks  around  here,  if 


196  A  Soil  of  Old  Harry.    . 

your  mother  lets  Uncle  Hod  manage  for  her,  and  then 
you  can  buy  him  back  some  day." 

"  I  don't  want  to  buy  him  back." 

"  Well,  you  can  get  another  just  as  good,"  continued 
the  little  comforter. 

"There  ain't  any  just  as  good,  Deely.  Mr.  Mosely 
says  he's  the  best  horse  in  the  country,  and  he  wouldn't 
take  five  thousand  dollars  for  his  bargain  to-day  ;  but 
if  he  was  twice  as  good,  I  don't  want  him,  nor  I  don't 
ever  want  to  see  him  again." 

"  Why,  Jack  !" 

"  I  don't,  Deely  !  I'm  never  going  to  own  a  horse  as 
long  as  I  live,  no  matter  how  rich  I  may  be." 

*'  Why — Jack  Goodwin  !"  exclaimed  the  girl,  drawing 
back,  and  looking  up  at  him  with  astonishment. 

"I  won't  !"  repeated  the  lad,  stubbornly. 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"  'Cause  I'm  going  to  be  a  minister." 

"  But  you'll  be  rich  ;  pa  says  you  will." 

"  I  don't  care  if  I  am." 

"  Rich  folks  are  never  ministers,"  said  the  girl,  in  a 
positive,  satisfied  tone. 

"  I'm  going  to  be  one,  anyway." 

"  Are  you  going  to  preach  and  holler  like  other  minis- 
ters ?" 

"  I — I — s'pose  so." 

"  It  must  be  awful  hard  work." 

The  girl  sighed,  as  if  the  thought  of  the  exertion 
oppressed  her. 

"  I  'spect  it  is,"  replied  the  boy,  absently. 

"  But  you'll  need  a  horse  to  get  to  your  preaching- 
places  ?" 

"  I  shall  walk." 

The  girl  burst  into  a  laugh  that  echoed  musically 
through  the  empty  room.     The  mother,  busy  with  her 


The  Clouds  Roll  By.  197 

work  below,  heard  it,  and  rejoiced  that  the  sorrowing 
lad  could  so  soon  forget  his  grief. 

"  I  don't  see  anything  funny  in  that,"  said  the  boy 
half -resentfully.     "  You  needn't  go  with  me." 

"I  should  think  not,"  she  rejoined,  laughing  still 
more  heartily.  "  The  idea  of  a  minister  walking  to 
church  and  leaving  his  wife  at  home  !" 

"  Perhaps  I  sha'n't  have  any  wife,"  said  the  boy, 
sulkily. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  will,"  answered  the  girl,  sobered  at 
once  by  his  anger.  "  You  know  I'm  going  to  be  your 
wife.  Remember,  we  promised  '  forever  and  ever, 
Amen  !'  I  couldn't  marry  anybody  else,  after  that ;  it 
would  be  wicked." 

The  girl  spoke  in  tones  of  grave  reproach. 

"  I  s'pose  it  would,"  said  the  boy,  apologetically. 

"  What  makes  you  think  you  will  be  a  minister.  Jack  .?" 
she  asked,  after  a  moment  of  oppressive  silence. 

"  Father  said  he  wanted  I  should  be  if — if  I  got  a 
call." 

"  What's  that  ?" 

"  I  don't  know ;  something  preachers  have.  I've 
heard  them  talk  about  it.  Some  say  father  had  one 
once — a  long  time  ago — and  didn't  listen  to  it,  and  that 
was  the  reason  he  had  so  much  trouble." 

"  What  did  he  have  so  much  trouble  about }  Was  it 
because  he  was  sick  ?" 

'■'■  Oh,  no  ;  that's  what  made  him  sick  ;  'cause  he  was  in 
debt  and  was  afraid  he'd  lose  the  farm,  I  s'pose." 

"  Couldn't  he  get  another,  if  he  did  ?"' 

"  I  don't  know  ;  never  thought  of  that.  I  s'pose  he'd 
set  his  heart  on  this  one." 

"  If  I  had  my  way,  there  wouldn't  be  any  trouble  in 
the  world — not  the  least  little  bit,"  said  the  child- 
•vyoman,  with  q^uiet  certainty. 


198  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

"  Oh,  there  has  to  be,  Deely,"  said  the  boy,  with 
reproachful  earnestness.  His  religious  education  had 
made  trouble  so  essential  a  part  of  the  Divine  dis- 
pensation, that  to  question  its  necessity  seemed  to 
him  nothing  less  than  sacrilege. 

"  Do  you  think  we'll  have  any  trouble.  Jack — you 
and  I  ?"  solemnly. 

"  Why,  of  course." 

**  What  do  you  suppose  it'll  be  about  ?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"It  won't  be  about  money,  will  it?  We'll  both  be 
rich." 

The  child  spoke  with  gay  assurance. 

"  It'll  be  something,  if  there  has  to  be  a  new  kind  of 
trouble  made  just  for  us.  Everybody  has  trouble,  Deely 
— everybody — more  or  less." 

"  I  s'pect  they  do,"  said  the  little  lady,  smoothing  out 
her  frock,  as  she  sat  upon  the  bed  a  la  Turk,  and  folding 
her  hands  demurely  in  her  lap.  The  boy,  his  legs  dan- 
gling over  the  side  of  the  bed  leaned  over  upon  his  right 
hand  and  watched  her  contentedly. 

"  Do  you  suppose  you'll  have  a  *  call,'  Jack  ?"  she 
asked,  at  length,  looking  up  at  him  with  a  sympathetic 
gaze. 

"  How  can  I  tell  ?  They  don't  ever  get  them  till  they 
are  man-grown.  Father  said  he  wanted  I  should  be 
ready  to  answer  if  one  came." 

"  What  will  you  have  to  do  to  get  ready  ?" 

**  Oh,  be  very  good — you  know — and  go  to  college — 
and — and — such. ' ' 

"  That's  all  right,"  cheerfully.  "  And  if  you  don't 
get  a  '  call  ?'  " 

"  Then  I'll  have  to  do  something  else,  I  s'pose." 

"  Of  course ;  and  then  you  can  have  all  the  horses 


The  Clouds  Roll  By.  199 

you  want,  I  don't  believe  you'll  get  any  *  call,' "  she 
added,  brightly. 

"  Perhaps  not ;  but — but — I  sha'n't  ever  own  a  horse 
if  I  don't." 

The  boy's  lip  quivered  and  his  eyes  filled  with  tears, 
as  the  memory  of  the  happy  days  at  the  training-camp 
came  to  his  mind,  but  he  turned  away  his  head  and 
looked  steadfastly  out  of  the  window  to  hide  his  weak- 
ness from  his  companion. 

"  Why  not.  Jack  ?" 

The  girl  laid  her  hand  caressingly  upon  his  shoulder 
and  leaned  forward  to  look  into  his  face. 

"  'Cause — I  can't,"  came  brokenly  from  the  lad's 
determined  lips. 

"  Won't  you  tell  your  little  Deely,  Jack  ?" 

Unable  to  resist  this  appeal,  the  boy  drew  up  his  left 
foot,  and  removing  the  shoe  and  stocking,  pointed  to  the 
red  mark  upon  the  heel.  Either  because  the  foot  had 
lost  its  tan  during  his  illness,  or  because  the  exciting 
events  of  the  past  few  weeks  had  tended  to  promote 
its  development,  the  mark,  which  had  been  barely 
traceable  before,  now  showed  red  and  angry. 

"Why,  how  funny!"  said  the  girl,  scrutinizing  it 
curiously,  but  afraid  to  touch  it. 

*'  That  was  only  a  little  red  mark  that  you  could  hardly 
see,  when  we  were  down  in  the  camp,"  said  the  boy, 
with  quivering  lips.     "  Now  look  what  it's  like." 

He  turned  up  the  foot  to  show  that  the  red  line  crossed 
the  sole,  and  then  turned  it  back  that  she  might  see  the 
branches  almost  meeting  on  the  instep. 

"  That's  where  it's  tied,  I  s'pose,"  said  the  boy  explan- 
atorily. "  Uncle  Horace  says  they  used  to  tie  'em 
instead  of  buckling  them." 

"  But  what  is  it  ?"  asked  the  girl,  in  a  hushed  whisper. 

"  It's  a  sign,  Deely." 


200  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

"  A  sign  ?    Sign  of  what  ?" 

"  If  those  two  marks  ever  come  together  there,"  point- 
ing to  the  instep  and  speaking  very  solemnly,  "  it's  a 
sign  the  devil's  got  me  hard  and  fast,  and  there's  never 
any  chance  for  me  to  get  away.  Until  it  gets  clear 
round,  though,  he  ain't  ever  sure  of  me  ;  so  I'll  have  all 
manner  of  good  luck  till  that  comes,  just  to  keep  me 
from  breaking  away  and  disappointing  him,  you  see." 

"  Who  told  you  about  it,  Jack  ?" 

*'  Uncle  Horace  ;  he's  got  one,  too  ;  and  it's  quite  a 
considerable  bigger'n  mine — oh,  ever  so  big  round  under 
the  foot  here — but  it  hasn't  got  quite  together  on  top  ; 
is  just  about  half  as  far  apart  as  mine.  That's  the  rea- 
son he's  so  lucky — won  the  race,  didn't  get  killed,  and — 
oh,  everything !  That's  the  reason  everybody  likes 
him,  too,  and  he  can  make  money  without  trying  when- 
ever he's  a  mind  to.  The  devil's  just  baiting  him  on, 
you  see.  But  Uncle  Horace  says  he'll  give  him  the 
slip  yet,  and  I  hope  he  will."  • 

"  I'm  sure  he  will,"  said  the  girl,  cheerfully. 

"  It's  a  sign  that  runs  in  the  Goodwin  family  ;  some 
have  it  and  some  don't.  Them  that  does,  have  good 
luck,  and  are  apt  to  have  a  bad  end  ;  them  that  don't, 
have  bad  luck  but  die  happy.  Father  didn't  have  any  ; 
so  he  had  trouble.  Uncle  Horace  says  I  wouldn't  ever 
have  discovered  Abdallah  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that 
mark.  Father  could  see  his  points  after  we'd  showed 
'em  to  him,  but  he  never  would  have  found  them  out 
himself." 

"  I  believe  I'd  rather  have  the  mark,"  said  the  girl 
decisively.  The  spirit  of  King  Marsh  showed  in  her 
tones. 

"  But  the  dying,  Deely,"  said  the  boy,  solemnly. 

"  Ain't  there  any  way  to  have  the  luck  and  die  happy, 
too  ?" 


The  Clouds  Roll  By.  201 

*'  None — only  just  being  a  minister — a  child  of  Theo- 
philus." 

"  What's  that  ?"  asked  the  girl,  in  wide-eyed  wonder. 

Then  he  told  his  little  companion  the  story  of  Sir 
Harry  and  Theophilus  Goodwin.  When  he  had  con- 
cluded, she  looked  timorously  around  the  silent,  unfin- 
ished chamber  and  said  in  a  tremulous  whisper  : 

"  O,  dear  !" 

"  Hubert !   Deely  !   Come,  children — supper's  ready." 

His  mother's  voice  sounded  very  cheerful.  The  boy 
started  at  once  to  put  on  his  shoe  and  lace  it  up. 

**  What  makes  everybody  call  you  Hubert,  now  ?" 
asked  the  girl,  as  she  watched  him  weave  the  leather 
strings  in  and  out  through  the  uncased  holes  in  the 
shoe. 

"  I  don't  know  ;  unless  'cause  father  did," 

"  Don't  you  think  it's  because  you're  going  to  be  a 
minister  ?" 

"  May  be." 

"  You'll  let  me  call  you  Jack,  won't  you  ?" 

"  Of  course." 

"  Always  ?" 

"  To  be  sure  !"  straightening  up  and  looking  at  her 
wonderingly.  "  I  wouldn't  have  you  call  me  anything 
else  for  the  world  !     'Twouldn't  seem  natural." 

She  flung  her  arms  about  his  neck,  kissed  him  and 
pressed  her  cheek  against  his  with  unconscious  fervor. 
The  boy  received  her  caress  a  little  shamefacedly,  but 
did  not  return  it. 

"  Let  me  tie  up  my  shoe,"  he  said,  after  a  moment. 

Deely  released  her  clasp  of  his  neck  and  leaned  her 
head  upon  his  shoulder  while  he  finished.  Then  they 
slid  off  the  bed,  ran  a  race  to  the  stairway,  went  clat- 
tering down  and  burst  open  the  door  to  find  Uncle 
Horace  propped  up  in   the  easy-chair,  occupying  his 


202  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

brother's  accustomed  place  at  the  table,  while  Mrs. 
Goodwin  sat  opposite,  smiling  and  cheerful.  The  girl 
ran  to  kiss  the  invalid,  whose  tirst  appearance  this  was 
at  the  table,  while  the  boy  sat  down  in  his  wonted  seat 
with  a  strange,  indefinable  apprehension  tugging  at  his 
heart.  Was  his  Uncle  Horace  going  to  take  his  father's 
place  in  everything?  Another  surprise  awaited  him. 
Mrs.  Goodwin's  face  flushed  as  she  cast  a  meaning  look 
at  her  brother-in-law  and  bowed  her  head  over  her  plate. 
Horace  leaned  forward  and  in  stammering  tones  asked 
a  blessing.  In  those  days  it  was  customary  only  for  those 
who  were  termed  "  professors  "  to  say  grace  before  par- 
taking of  food,  and  the  children  felt  that  a  very  solemn 
and  momentous  change  had  taken  place,  which  they 
could  but  half  understand.  The  truth  was  that  a  new 
day  had  come.  One  king  was  dead  and  another  had 
come  to  reign  in  his  place.  Would  his  mle  be  just  and 
wise  and  tender  ?  This  was  the  unformulated  question 
the  young  hearts  were  unconsciously  striving  to  solve  as 
they  ate  the  first  meal  under  the  new  dispensation. 


CHAPTER  VH. 


HALCYON    DAYS. 


The  days  passed  swiftly,  and  the  sun  shone  brightly 
on  the  Goodwin  household.  Some  were  surprised,  but 
everybody  seemed  gratified  at  the  change  in  Uncle 
Horace.  One  of  his  first  acts  after  complete  recovery 
was  to  apply  for  admission  to  the  church. 

"  I  promised  Seth  when  hejwas  dying,  and  before,  too 
that  I'd  join  the  church  when  he  was  gone  and  take  care 


Halcyon  Days.  203 

of  those  he  left  behind,and  I'm  ready  to  do  my  part," 
was  the  only  satisfaction  he  gave  the  church  officials 
when  they  asked  his  motive  for  making  such  applica- 
tion. 

He  explained  his  choice  of  denomination,  which  had 
awakened  some  surprise,  in  a  like  unique  and  matter- 
of-fact  way : 

*'  You  see,  Seth  didn't  get  along  very  well  with  the 
Methodists,  and  as  I  am  not  half  so  good  as  he  was,  and 
haven't  any  of  his  gift,  I  thought  I'd  better  try  the 
Congregationalists,  and  see  if  I  could  not  make  a  better 
go  with  them.  I  s'pose  it's  all  the  same,  anyhow  ;  all 
bound  for  the  same  place,  and  so  far  as  I  can  see,  it 
don't  make  much  difference  which  road  one  takes. 
Susan  was  a  Congregationalist  before  she  married  Seth, 
and  I've  a  notion  she  feels  a  little  more  at  home  among 
them  yet.  As  I'll  have  to  stay  and  look  after  things  for 
her  till  the  boy  grows  up,  I  thought  I  might  as  well  join 
where  she'd  like  best  to  go.  It'll  be  better  for  the  boy, 
too.  As  for  me,  I  never  cared  enough  about  either  to 
have  any  preference  ;  I  just  want  to  do  what  seems  the 
best  thing  for  them." 

It  was  a  terribly  prosaic  view  to  take  of  a  spiritual 
matter.  He  did  not  seem  to  know  anything  about  the 
distinctive  tenets  of  the  church  he  had  selected,  or 
rather,  did  not  care  to  consider  them.  The  cardinal 
principles  embraced  in  the  declaration  of  faith  pre- 
sented to  him  he  accepted  withoiit  hesitation  and  with 
evident  sincerity.  As  to  a  change  of  heart,  he  candidly 
avowed  that  he  was  not  conscious  of  having  experienced 
any.  He  had  promised  his  brother  to  join  the  church, 
set  a  good  example  to  the  boy,  aud  see  that  he  had  a 
religious  training  and  a  thorough  education.  This 
promise  he  desired  to  fulfill,  and  wished  the  aid  of  the 


204  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

church  in  doing  so.  He  expected  the  help  of  God  as  a 
matter  of  course,  because  it  was  a  good  act. 

This  matter  made  a  deal  of  talk  in  the  neighborhood. 
Everybody  said  it  was  just  like  Horace  Goodwin,  who 
never  did  anything  as  anybody  else  did.  Some  com- 
plained of  his  apparent  irreverence  and  lack  of  spiritu- 
ality, but  they  all  admitted  that  he  meant  what  he  said, 
and  nearly  every  one  declared  that  he  had  done  exactly 
right.  Fireside  theologians  argued  stoutly  pro  and  con, 
about  a  change  of  heart  and  the  evidences  of  a  saving 
faith.  Being  asked  to  pray,  at  a  meeting  of  the  pastor 
and  deacons  called  to  consider  his  case,  he  complied  in 
such  a  simple,  stammering,  unconventional  way,  that 
even  those  who  smiled  could  not  help  weeping,  yet 
could  not  tell  why  they  wept.  After  some  delay  his 
request  was  granted.  He  soon  became  active  in  the 
affairs  of  the  church,  not  in  spiritual  things,  of  which  he 
professed  to  no  knowledge,  but  in  advancing  its  tem- 
poral interests,  and  bringing  into  it  many  of  his  old 
associates. 

After  a  few  months,  Mrs.  Goodwin  joined  the  same 
church  by  letter  from  the  Methodist  congregation  with 
which  she  had  united  in  her  husband's  lifetime.  Little 
more  than  a  year  afterward  Hubert  also  united  with  it. 
It  was  chiefly  through  his  uncle's  persuasion  that  he 
did  so.  "  You  know  it  was  your  father's  wish,"  he  said, 
and  the  boy  complied.  Deely  Kincaid  joined  at  the 
same  time.  Was  it  love  of  God  or  love  of  Jack,  that 
made  her  refuse  to  allow  him  to  be  separated  from  her 
by  any  new  relation  ?  Many  remarked  that  it  seemed 
like  a  marriage  of  these  two  who  were  yet  children,  but 
seemed  to  be  one  in  all  their  aspirations.  There  was  a 
rapt  look  upon  the  girl's  face  as  they  rose  from  their 
knees  with  the  water  of  baptism  still  sparkling  upon 
her  palCp  gold  tresses,  as  she  glanced  at  her  companion 


Halcyon  Days.  205 

before  turning  to  listen  to  the  charg-e  of  the  pastor.  The 
boy  hardly  heard  the  words  of  the  minister,  so  absorbed 
was  he  with  the  thoughts  inspired  by  that  look — a  look 
he  never  forgot,  and  which  came  back  to  his  memory 
in  after  years  with  a  sting  like  that  of  a  scorpion  which 
he  could  neither  slay  nor  escape.  "  Yours — for  time 
and  eternity,  yours !" — was  the  language  of  her  tear- 
dimmed  eyes.  How  often  was  he  to  see  them,  shining 
through  the  darkness  when  he  could  answer  but  with 
groans  their  unceasing  appeal.  O,  child-bride  and 
child-groom,  who  would  have  dreamed  that  only  the 
grave  could  hide  forever  the  shame  of  that  glance  of 
purity  and  love  flashing  from  soul  to  soul,  as  you  stood 
at  God's  altar  !  Terrible  was  the  sacrifice  you  laid  upon 
the  shrine  of  love  that  day,  oh,  spotless  soul,  whom 
earth  had  no  power  to  stain,  and  whom  the  Merciful 
Father  at  length  found  but  one  way  to  save  from  sin 
and  secure  from  shame  ! 

Horace  Goodwin  at  once  assumed  charge  of  the  family 
interests,  and  soon  established  a  new  era  of  prosperity. 
He  came  to  the  helm  at  a  fortunate  time.  Balmy  breezes 
were  blowing  and  the  foundations  of  many  fortunes  were 
laid  in  the  next  few  years.  The  gold  of  California  was 
just  finding  its  way  eastward,  and  enlivening  business 
and  production  with  the  assurance  of  a  stable  medium. 
The  Crimean  War  was  on  the  horizon,  and  our  agricul- 
tural products  took  a  rebound  from  the  depression  of 
the  previous  decade,  which  put  money  in  the  pockets  of 
all  those  who  were  wisely  watchful  of  events.  Among 
these  was  Horace  Goodwin.  The  tide  of  public  favor 
set  strongly  with  him,  too.  People  spoke  of  him  with 
lavish  praise,  now  that  he  had  quit  sowing  his  wild  oats 
and  settled  down.  He  found  no  lack  of  means  or  oppor- 
tunity to  engage    in  any  business  he   desired.      Men 


2o6  A  Son  of  Old  Harfy. 

believed  him  lucky  and  were  anxious  to  join  their  for- 
tunes with  his. 

The  farm  which  his  brother's  industry  and  thrift  had 
made  to  yield  but  a  scanty  proht,  soon  became  a  source 
of  positive  wealth.  Horace  violated  all  the  maxims  of 
the  agricultural  community  in  which  he  lived  ;  did  many 
things  they  thought  needed  not  to  be  done,  and  left  un- 
done others  that  were  esteemed  of  prime  importance. 
Especially  did  men  predict  failure  because  he  would 
neither  hold  the  plow  nor  drive.  But  he  caught  at  new 
ideas,  purchased  new  and  improved  breeds  of  stock, 
bought  and  sold  with  an  appreciation  of  values  that 
seemed  instinctive,  and  paid  wages  that  astounded  his 
neighbors.  If  he  did  not  labor  himself,  his  eye  saw  all 
that  was  done  or  left  undone,  and  neglect  was  sure  to  be 
followed  by  dismissal. 

When  an  opportunity  offered  to  enlarge  the  farm,  he 
improved  it.  "  Seth  always  wanted  that  piece  to 
straighten  his  south  line,"  he  remarked.  People  smiled 
when  he  planted  a  double  row  of  maples  and  elms  along 
the  State  road  from  end  to  end  of  his  possessions.  "  Seth 
always  said  he  meant  to  do  it  if  he  ever  got  able,"  was 
his  excuse.  And  so,  for  everything  he  did,  he  quoted 
the  dead  brother,  until  his  neighbors  laughed  and  his 
workmen  jested  with  each  other  about  it.  But  what  he 
planted  grew  ;  what  he  raised  found  a  profitable  market. 
He  did  not  sell  raw  material,  but  turned  corn  into  cattle 
and  forage  into  flesh.  He  imported  shorthorns,  then 
just  coming  into  favor ;  raised  horses,  bought  horses, 
trained  them  sometimes ;  and  from  everything  he 
touched  realized  some  advantage. 

Even  the  Queen,  whom  he  kept  from  gratitude,  yielded 
him  a  golden  return.  He  had  many  offers  for  her,  but 
he  would  accept  none.  He  drove  her  sometimes,  but 
never  let  the  harness  gall  nor  work  tire  her.     He  had 


Halcyon  Days.  207 

promised  her,  he  said,  that  she  should  live  with  him  and 
have  an  easy  time.  Her  progeny  soon  came  to  be  worth 
almost  unheard-of  prices.  The  blood  of  the  Belmont 
Mare  grew  more  and  more  valuable  as  the  achievements 
of  her  descendants  became  more  notable.  Every  year 
some  one  of  them  lowered  the  record  by  seconds  or 
fractions  of  a  second.  Already  she  was  known  as  *'  the 
dam  of  trotters,"  when  the  Queen's  first  foal,  a  son  of 
Belmont's  Abdallah,  sold  at  three  years  old  for  a  price 
even  greater  than  that  paid  for  his  sire.  From  that  time 
Horace  Goodwin  was  known  and  recognized  as  one  of 
the  most  successful  breeders  in  the  country  ;  but  he 
would  never  race  except  to  make  a  record.  People 
called  his  success  luck  and  his  abstinence  superstition. 
He  did  not  talk  about  either  except  to  Hubert — nobody 
called  him  Jack  now  except  Deely  Kincaid.  It  was  the 
day  of  individuality  in  business,  and  Horace  Goodwin's 
individuality  was  the  key-note  of  his  success.  Organiza- 
tion had  not  yet  eradicated  manhood. 

For  many  reasons,  the  boy's  relations  with  his  uncle 
were  more  intimate  than  he  had  ever  sustained  to  his 
father.  Though  the  head  of  the  family,  Horace  treated 
him  more  as  a  companion  than  a  child.  He  told  him  his 
plans,  encouraged  him  to  make  suggestions  ;  made  him 
his  agent,  sometimes  his  lieutenant ;  but  kept  it  always 
before  his  mind  that  he  must  prepare  for  other  work. 

"  You  know  your  father  wanted  you  to  go  to  college, 
and  I  promised  that  you  should,"  he  would  say.  "  I 
don't  see  how  I  am  going  to  get  along  without  you,  but 
you  must  go.  I'll  find  the  money  and  look  after  matters 
here,  and  when  you  get  through  we'll  just  divide — share 
and  share  alike.  I  guess  that  '11  be  about  right.  I 
really  hadn't  anything  to  begin  with,  and  if  Seth  had  been 
alive  it  would  all  have  been  yours.     But  you  must  go  to 


2o8  A  Soil  of  Old  Harry. 

college,  and  you  must  be  getting  ready  for  it.  You 
needn't  be  in  a  hurry,  but  don't  forget  your  books." 

This  lenient  rule  was  too  much  for  the  boy's  moral 
nature  to  endure  without  relaxation  of  his  purpose. 
Life  on  the  farm  under  his  uncle's  regime  suited  him 
exactly.  He  was  not  fond  of  study,  and  even  his 
mother's  persuasions  were  not  sufficient  to  keep  him  up 
to  his  work.  His  attendance  at  school  was  irregular 
and  his  progress  not  creditable.  The  mark  upon  his 
heel  seldom  troubled  him  ;  he  felt  at  liberty  to  indulge 
his  fondness  for  horses  so  long  as  they  were  not  his 
own. 

Deely  Kincaid,  still  his  chief  companion,  was  glad  to 
see  him  lose  his  morbid  apprehension  of  the  future, 
but  began  to  grow  alarmed  when  she  found  him  falling 
behind  in  his  studies.  Her  ambition  for  him  was  as 
keen  as  for  herself,  and  for  both  it  was  insatiable.  At 
sixteen  he  was  not  nearly  ready  for  college,  and  his 
mother  was  suddenly  alarmed  by  his  persistent  request 
to  be  allowed  to  go  East  with  a  drove  of  horses  his 
uncle  was  about  to  send  on.  It  was  finally  determined 
that  in  consideration  of  being  allowed  to  do  so,  he 
should  at  once  begin  his  work  of  preparation  in  earnest. 

His  mother  met  him  on  their  arrival  in  New  York 
with  the  horses  and  took  him  to  one  of  the  most  cele- 
brated schools  of  New  England.  She  seemed  very  sad 
at  parting  with  him  ;  and  the  boy,  now  fast  growing  to 
manhood,  thinking  only  of  her  happiness,  said  impul- 
sively : 

"  Ma,  why  don't  you  marry  Uncle  Horace  ?" 

He  was  somewhat  taken  aback  when,  blushing 
deeply,  she  told  him  that  when  he  came  home  for  the 
vacation  he  would  find  his  wish  fulfilled,  adding  that  it 
was  her  desire,  and  Horace's  also,  that  he  should  still 
call  the  latter  "  Uncle." 


Halcyon  Days.  209 

When  she  was  gone,  the  knowledge  of  this  fact 
seemed  to  put  him  very  far  away  indeed  from  his  past, 
and  induced  him  to  address  himself  more  sedulously  to 
the  duties  of  the  future  than  he  otherwise  would.  He 
did  not  love  study  any  better  than  before,  but  he  had 
nothing  to  divert  his  attention  from  it,  and  made  good 
progress.  From  that  time  until  his  graduation  he  had 
little  thought  of  anything  else.  His  mother's  letters, 
his  uncle's  and  Deeley's,  sufficed  to  keep  him  in  touch 
with  his  own  world,  and  he  did  not  desire  any  other. 

Once  a  year,  at  the  summer  vacation,  he  returned 
home  for  a  brief  period  of  unmixed  enjoyment.  The 
evidences  of  prosperity  multiplied  so  rapidly  that  at 
each  visit  he  had  to  take  account  of  new  ones.  The 
house  had  first  been  tinished,  and  then  had  almost  dis- 
appeared behind  costlier  additions.  Barns  and  stables 
grew  in  number  and  value,  and  the  young  collegian 
found  his  old  love  for  the  horse  returning  as  the  best 
occupants  of  the  stalls  were  placed  at  his  disposal  for 
long  drives  and  rides  with  Deely  Kincaid,  now  openly 
recognized  as  his  betrothed,  and  growing  even  lovelier 
than  the  promise  of  her  girlhood  would  have  led  one  to 
expect.  Even  the  birth  of  a  little  sister  did  not  wean 
his  mother's  heart  from  him,  nor  affect  his  cordial 
relations  with  his  uncle.  He  enjoyed  their  home  no 
less  than  before,  but  he  called  it  theirs,  not  his,  any 
longer.  He  had  begun  to  feel  the  impulse  of  separa- 
tion which  thrust  the  fledgeling  out  of  the  parent  nest ! 
Marshall  Kincaid  and  his  wife  softened  somewhat  as 
the  years  went  by,  but  their  pride  in  their  daughter 
grew  stronger-  than  ever.  In  her  anxiety  to  justify 
their  hopes,  Deely  had  pursued  a  course  of  study  as 
extensive  as  it  was  incongruous,  which  finally  began  to 
tell  upon  her  strength.  It  was  before  the  days  of  colleges 
for  women. 


2 1  o  -  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

There  were  only  "  female  seminaries  "  then.  This 
fact  made  the  task  of  a  woman  seeking  a  liberal  educa- 
tion far  more  difficult  than  that  of  the  boy,  since  there 
was  no  prescribed  curriculum,  and  she  had  to  master 
both  the  solid  work  of  the  college  course  and  the  accom- 
plishments then  deemed  far  more  essential  to  her  sex 
than  knowledge. 

During  her  last  vacation  people  began  to  talk  about 
a  decline,  and  hint  at  consumptive  tendencies  ;  but  her 
father  and  mother  laughed  at  such  forebodings. 

"  She's  a  little  puny,"  said  the  stalwart  King  of  the 
Corners  with  all  his  old  willfulness,  replying  to  such  a 
suggestion  by  one  of  a  group  of  customers,  as  he  sat 
upon  the  counter  one  summer  evening,  just  after  Hubert 
and  Deely  dashed  up  to  the  old  inn,  their  horses  smok- 
ing and  their  tones  full  of  the  subtle  gleefulness  of 
young  love,  "  but  she's  only  got  one  more  year.  She's 
been  working  pretty  hard  for  a  good  while,  but  she'll 
have  a  rest  then.  No  consumption  about  her,  and  no 
fear  of  a  decline.  Do  you  hear  that  laugh  ?  Clear  as  a 
bell.  She's  like  her  ma — there  ain't  much  of  her,  but 
what  there  is  is  clear  grit.  No  discount  on  her.  She'll 
graduate  next  year,  and  she'll  be  away  up  at  the  head 
of  her  class,  too,  besides  all  she's  done  outside.  She 
won't  be  like  young  Goodwin.  I  understand  he 
graduated  somewhere  about  the  middle  of  his  class. 
He's  a  smart  fellow,  but  he  ain't  no  such  scholar  as  my 
Deely.  She'll  be  top-notch,  or  she  won't  be  nowhere. 
You  mark  my  words.  It's  a  pity  she  ain't  a  boy,  so  she 
could  go  to  college  sure  enough,  and  just  show  'em 
what  can  be  done.  Extras  and  all,  she's  done  a  deal 
more  than  the  college  course.  Why,  besides  Latin  and 
Greek,  she's  learned  French  an'  German  an'  Italian, 
and  what  with  her  music  and  drawin*  and  paintin',  I  tell 
■you  she's  got  through  with  a  heap  more'n  the  boy.     He 


Halcyon  Days.  211 

looks  kind  o'  tired  an'  washed  out,  too,  as  if  he'd  had 
about  as  much  as  he  could  stand  up  to.  He  don't  learn 
as  quick  as  Deely  though,  an',  besides  that,  bein'  mewed 
up  in  a  house  don't  come  natural  to  a  man,  nohow. 

"  They  tell  me  they're  goin'  to  send  him  back  to  the 
seminary — Theological  Seminary — you  know,  where 
they  polish  off  the  college-made  preachers — bound  to 
make  a  minister  of  him,  you  see.  But  they  won't  ever 
do  it  ;  he  ain't  that  sort.  That's  what  Deely  thinks,  an' 
I  guess  she  knows  him  if  anybody  does.  I'm  glad  he's 
goin'  back  to  the  city,  this  year,  though,  for  Deely's 
sake — ^be  a  lot  of  company  for  her — but  after  that  he'd 
better  come  back  here  and  settle  down.  Now,  that 
Horace  has  been  'lected  to  the  Legislater,  he  needs 
some  one  to  look  after  his  affairs,  anyhow. 

"  They'd  made  a  team — he  an'  Deely.  Needn't  ever 
do  a  stroke  o'  work,  or  they  might  do  anything  they'd  a 
mind  to.  He's  got  luck,  an'  Deely  s  got  determination, 
an'  they'd  both  have  a  good  speck  of  money.  Half  of 
all  the  Goodwin  property  goes  to  him,  you  know,  when 
he's  twenty-one — that's  this  fall  some  time.  That  was 
the  bargain  when  Horace  married  the  widder — a  good 
bargain  on  his  part,  too.  You  see,  he  got  half  the 
property  and  the  widder  besides.  But  he's  kept  it 
growin',  no  mistake  about  that.  They  had  it  all  writ 
down  in  black  an'  white.  Squire  Kendall  fixed  it  up, 
an'  no  lawyer  has  ever  been  able  to  drive  a  cart  an' 
oxen  through  a  paper  he  draw'd  yet.  So  the  young 
fellow's  all  right,  so  far  as  money  goes. 

"  Will  they  get  married  ?  Oh,  of  course,  after  a  while. 
They've  been  sweet  on  each  other  for  years  and  years. 
Deely  could  do  a  good  deal  better,  no  doubt  about  that. 
She's  got  style,  you  know — is  one  of  them  gals  the 
fellers  take  to  as  nat'rally  as  bees  to  a  pot  of  honey. 
She  might  just  as  well  marry  a  hundred  thousand  as 


2  12  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

twent}/ — every  bit.  She  knows  it,  too,  as  well  as  any- 
body, an'  her  ma  gets  real  put  out  with  her  for  her 
stubbornness.  But  she  won't  hear  a  word  'bout  anybody 
else  ;  won't  hardly  treat  a  feller  decent  as  soon's  she  sees 
he  wants  to  make  love  to  her.  She's  30  wrapt  up  in 
Jack — that's  what  she  always  calls  him,  you  know — that 
her  ma  an'  I  just  quit  tryin'  to  break  it  off  any  more'n 
if  they  was  man  an'  wife. 

"  Of  course,  we  haven't  no  objection  to  young  Good- 
win— only  this  nonsense  about  his  bein'  a  minister — an' 
if  he  should  \.Qk.Q.  a  turn  to  business  he'd  be  a  clipper,  an' 
no  mistake.  But  if  people  keep  fussin'  round  tryin'  to 
make  a  silk  puss  out  of  a  sow's  ear,  they're  apt  to  spoil 
it  for  souse,  an'  then  'tain't  wuth  nothin'.  There's  a 
sort  o'  risk  in  it — always  is  i  n  these  people  that  are  too 
religious.  Many  an'  many  a  man  has  gone  to  the  devil 
by  tryin'  to  be  too  good  ;  insistin'  on  doin'  somethin'  the 
Lord  didn't  cut  him  out  to  do.  That's  what  I'm  afraid 
of  with  him,  A  man  don't  want  too  much  conscience 
in  this  world.  It's  always  standin'  in  his  way,  and 
henderin'  him  when  he  ought  to  be  improvin'  his  oppor- 
tunities. For  my  part,  I  never  seen  a  very  rich  man 
who  had  any  more  religion  than  he  could  afford  to 
carry  around  wherever  his  interests  demanded.  If  he's 
all  the  time  inquirin'  whether  this  or  that  or  t'  other 
thing's  right,  why,  first  he  knows,  he  hain't  got  no  time 
to  make  money  ;  an'  in  these  days  m.oney's  wuth  more'n 
religion,  and  I've  my  'pinion  it's  goin'  to  keep  gittin' 
more  an'  more  so  right  straight  along. 

"  A  certain  amount  of  religion  is  well  enough — pays  in 
fact.  I've  been  sorry  sometimes  I  didn't  take  on  a  little 
myself.  There's  Hod  Goodwin,  now ;  he's  got  just 
enough  ;  it's  a  great  help  to  him  sometimes,  and  ain't 
ever  in  the  way.  You  couldn't  get  him  to  put  a  horse 
on  the  track  an'  bet  he'd  beat  any  other  horse  for  any 


Halcyon  Days,  213 

money,  I  don't  s'pose  ;  but  he'll  raise  the  horse  an'  hire 
that  little  nigger,  who  is  jest  as  full  of  tricks  as  Satan  is 
of  sin,  to  train  him,  an'  then  he'll  let  him  run  or  trot, 
and  others  can  bet  on  him  if  they  want  tt).  Then,  if  he 
wins,  he'll  sell  him  for  a  price,  ten,  twenty,  fifty  times 
as  big  as  he'd  got  if  he  hadn't  won.  For  my  part,  I 
don't  see  no  difference  'twixt  bettin'  on  a  winner  an' 
raisin'  a  winner  for  others  to  bet  on.  But  one's  all  right 
for  a  church  member  an'  t'other  isn't. 

"  If  I  thought  the  young  man  wouldn't  ever  have  any 
more  religion 'n  Hod,  or  would  have  that  kind,  I  wouldn't 
mind  it.  But  you  know  his  father  wasn't  that  way. 
I've  never  quite  foiind  out  how  'twas  that  Hod  managed 
to  get  his  permission  to  run  that  colt.  There  was  some 
sort  of  deception  about  it  somewhere,  an'  I'm  just  as 
well  satisfied  as  if  I'd  seen  it  done,  that  it  was  his 
conscience  that  killed  Seth  Goodwin.  They  say  he'd 
made  up  his  mind  'twas  all  right  for  him  to  do  it, 
because  he  was  so  bad  off  and  his  family  needed  the 
money  ;  but  what  kind  o'  reasoning  is  that  ?  It's  my 
'pinion  he  made  up  his  mind  to  do  it  anyhow,  an'  just 
died  fightin'  with  his  conscience,  'cause  he  thought  'twas 
wrong.  Now,  if  the  boy  should  take  after  him,  I 
wouldn't  have  Deely  marry  him  for  anythin'.  I  don't 
know  as  he  will,  but  they  tell  me  he's  jest  as  hot  an 
Abolitionist  as  Seth  was,  an'  after  a  man  gets  that  far, 
there's  no  knowin'  where  he'll  stop.  He's  sure  to  want 
to  run  the  world  his  own  way  an'  make  everything  over 
on  a  '  higher  law '  model — jest  accordin'  to  his  own 
whim.  I  wouldn't  trust  an  Abolitionist  as  far  as  I  could 
throw  a  bull  by  the  tail,  no  matter  how  good  he  was.  In 
fact,  the  better  such  people  are  the  worse  they're  likely 
to  get. 

"  I  don't  say  'tain't  right  for  the  niggers  to  be  free  ; 
but  what'd  we  do  with  'em  if  they  was  ?    An'  what's  the 


2  14  -^  "^^^^  ^f  ^^^  Harry. 

sense  of  jest  tearin'  up  the  country  an*  cuttin'  each 
other's  throats  'cause  they  aren't?  An'  that's  what 
we're  comin'  to  jest  as  fast  as  these  folks  can  push  us  on, 
or  I  can't  read'writin'. 

"  An'  the  very  worst  kind  of  Abolitionist  is  an  Abo- 
lition minister.  I'm  afraid  that's  the  sort  o'  preacher 
they're  goin'  to  make  out  of  young  Goodwin  ;  an'  if  he 
does  turn  out  that  way,  you  can  jest  set  it  down  as  a  fact 
that  I'll  see  that  gal  o'  mine  in  her  coffin  'fore  she  shall 
marry  him — with  my  consent,  that  is  ;  an'  I  promise 
you  that  if  she  marries  without  my  consent,  she  won't 
ever  see  the  color  of  my  money  afterward,  I  wouldn't 
even  give  her  the  broken  bank  bills  piled  up  in  the 
drawer  there  to  save  her  from  starvin'  !  I  wouldn't,  by 
the  Eternal !" 

Marshall  Kincaid  gave  his  thigh  a  resounding  whack 
as  he  made  this  declaration,  and,  leaping  off  the  counter, 
began  making  preparations  to  close  the  store  for  the 
night. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

DUTY    RUNS    WITH    INCLINATION, 

Hubert  Goodwin  did  not  exactly  fancy  the  notion  of 
entering  the  Theological  Seminary,  He  not  only  did 
not  feel  any  call  to  preach,  but  he  was  not  even  what  is 
termed  religiously  inclined,  without  which,  preparation 
for  the  ministry  as  a  profession  is  hardly  regarded  with 
favor  in  this  country.  Not  that  he  was  at  all  irreligious  ; 
but  he  was  neither  inclined  to  metaphysical  disquisition 
nor  had  he  that  sympathetic  nature  which  fits  one  for 
counsel    and   monition.     Organization,   administration, 


Duty  Runs  with  htclination.  215 

the  adaption  of  means  to  specific  ends — these  constituted 
the  decided  bent  of  his  mind.  He  felt  that  he  would  be 
out  of  place  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  seminary,  not 
because  it  was  religious,  but  because  it  was  speculative, 
analytical,  demonstrative.  He  did  not  care  about  the 
grounds  of  faith,  either  on  his  own  account  or  for  the 
sake  of  others.  He  believed  ;  that  was  enough  for  him. 
So,  too,  he  did  not  care  to  speculate  about  spiritual  mat- 
ters. He  had  no  curiosity  about  the  plan  of  salvation, 
and  no  religious  experiences  worth  mentioning.  He  was 
not  given  to  self -dissection,  nor  fond  of  noting  the  oper- 
ations of  his  own  mind.  He  liked  to  do.  He  would 
have  been  willing  to  fight  for  his  faith — would  have  been 
an  unflinching  martyr,  if  there  had  been  any  demand 
for  martyrs  ;  but  he  was  not  worshipful  by  nature  nor 
inclined  to  spiritual  diagnosis.  He  believed,  and  was 
willing  to  do  whatever  was  needful  to  be  done,  but  he 
had  no  liking  for  the  duty  of  persuading  men  to  believe 
or  to  do.  He  did  not  even  care  to  pray,  since  the  act 
seemed  to  him  often  unnecessary,  and  at  other  times 
almost  an  impeachment  of  divine  mercy. 

He  had  talked  with  the  president  of  the  seminary 
before  he  left  the  city,  telling  him  the  circumstances  as 
fully  as  he  could  and  his  own  feelings  in  regard  to  the 
matter.  As  is  usual  with  the  strong  nature  that  is 
induced  to  seek  advice,  he  found  himself  more  unde- 
cided afterwards  than  before.  All  this  thoughtful  and 
experienced  man  could  do  was  to  advise  him  to  adopt 
whatever  course  seemed  to  him  right.  This  was  the 
very  problem  he  was  trying  to  solve — what  was  his 
duty.  If  he  had  been  sure  it  was  his  duty  to  study  for 
the  ministry  he  would  have  done  it  without  hesitation  ; 
but  this  he  could  not  decide. 

If  there  had  been  any  other  profession  to  which  he 
felt  particuarly  inclined  he  would  not  have  hesitated  to 


2i6  A  So7i  of  Old  Harry. 

embrace  it,  but  there  was  none.  Had  not  a  college  bred 
farmer  in  those  days  been  an  absurdity,  he  might  have 
turned  to  agriculture.  As  a  fact,  though  he  did  not 
know  it,  his  decided  bent  was  for  that  sort  of  financial 
adventure  which  we  call  speculation,  aptitude  for  which 
was  the  secret  of  his  uncle's  success.  He  thought  of 
these  things  with  that  sort  of  unhappiness  which  comes 
from  indecision,  but  he  spoke  of  them  to  no  one.  His 
was  not  a  nature  that  clamored  for  advice.  Besides,  he 
knew  the  wishes  of  all  whose  opinions  he  cared  any- 
thing about. 

"  Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  asked  his  uncle 
one  day  when  the  vacation  was  half  over. 

They  were  sitting  under  the  great  elm  whose  shadow 
seemed  especially  imbued  with  his  father's  presence. 
It  was  here  that  his  father  had  sat  day  after  day  dur- 
ing that  last  summer  when  he  was  fighting  with  death 
for  the  material  triumph  which  had  been  the  dream  of 
his  life.  It  was  from  this  point  that  he  had  watched  the 
preparations  for  the  Great  Race  and  with  unflinching 
confidence  awaited  the  result.  It  was  here  that  the  boy 
had  heard  his  final  words  of  approval  when  the  struggle 
had  been  won. 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  the  young  man,  thought- 
fully. 

Time  had  made  changes  in  the  appearance  of  Hubert 
Goodwin,  but  they  were  only  the  natural  changes 
which  transforms  the  boy  into  the  man.  He  had  been 
a  boy  of  ordinary  appearance,  and  had  grown  into  a 
man  without  striking  characteristics.  He  was  of 
ordinary  height,  well  built,  showing  endurance  rather 
than  great  strength,  the  heavy  lines  of  his  father's  face 
softened  by  the  milder  elements  of  his  mother's  visage, 
but  his  full  eye,  blue  as  it  was,  shone  dark  under  its 
heavy  brow,  shaded  with  long  lashes.     His  face  indi- 


Duty  Runs  with  Inclination.  217 

cated  decision,  and  his  uncle,  looking  at  him  as  he 
leaned  easily  back  in  his  chair,  knew  that,  however 
much  he  might  yield  to  the  wishes  of  those  interested 
in  his  welfare,  the  time  would  come  when  he  would 
determine  for  himself  what  he  would  do,  and  when 
that  time  came,  their  advice  would  count  for  nothing  in 
the  balance  against  his  will. 

"  That  being  the  case,"  said  Horace  Goodwin,  with  a 
shrewd  appreciation  of  the  yet  undeveloped  manhood 
of  his  hearer,  "  I  think  you  had  better  go  to  the  semi- 
nary for  a  while  at  least.  I  believe  I  know  something 
how  you  feel.  You  have  been  through  a  long  course  of 
preparation  ;  think  that  you  ought  to  be  able  to  do 
something  ;  perhaps  think  you  might  do  any  one  of 
several  things,  but  have  no  special  inclination  to  any  of 
them.  Of  course,  you  don't  want  to  make  any  mis- 
take by  a  wrong  decision.  Your  father  wished  you  to 
prepare  yourself  for  the  ministry.  He  was  a  wise 
man  as  well  as  a  good  one.  You  know  the  men  of  our 
family  are  always  in  danger  of  going  to  the  bad  unless 
some  special  strain  is  put  on  them.  I  can  realize  now 
that  it  may  have  been  our  father's  death  that  saved 
Seth  from  making  shipwreck  of  his  life,  just  as  his 
death,  by  devolving  on  me  both  responsibility  and 
opportunity,  showed  my  bent  and  gave  scope  to  activ- 
ities which  were  before  either  useless  or  harmful. 
The  seminary  seems  to  me  a  good  place  to  wait  till  you 
are  ready  do  decide  as  to  your  vocation.  It  will  be  a 
change  of  interests  and  associations,  and  from  all  I  can 
learn,  give  you  a  chance  to  study  other  things  as  well 
as  theology.  You  have  not  yet  received  a  call ;  perhaps 
you  never  will.  Then,  again,  it  may  be  that  your  sur- 
roundings and  associations  have  not  been  such  as  to 
incline  you  to  that  work.  I  think  you  owe  it  to  your 
father's  memory  to  go  a  little  beyond  rather  than  stop 


2i8  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

short  of  what  you  think  he  would  require  if  he  were 
present  instead  of  me.  I  am  sure  you  won't  lose  any- 
thing by  doing  so. 

"  I  wish  you  would  go  back  and  try  it  for  a  year  or 
two,  anyhow.  It  can't  hurt  you,  and  I  feel  as  if  I'd 
promised  Seth  that  you  should.  Of  course  I  didn't, 
only  in  a  general  way,  but  I  should  hardly  be  content  if 
I  didn't  ask  you  to  do  that  much,  at  least.  Don't  mind 
the  expense,  we  can  aflEord  it  ;  and  then  if  you  don't 
wish  to  go  on,  you'll  probably  learn  what  you  really 
want  to  do.  If  you  don't  get  a  call,  why  I'm  clear  of 
my  promise  and  you  of  yours.  Then — well,  it'll  be  time 
enough  to  plan  when  that  happens." 

"  But  Deely  thinks — "  the  young  man  began  to  make 
reply. 

"  Yes,  I  know  ;  she  thinks  you  won't  ever  be  a  minis- 
ter. She  says  you're  too  good.  That's  humbug,  of 
course,  but  I  don't  see  why  you're  not  good  enough. 
But  if  you  don't  ever  preach,  I  s'pose  the  seminary 
won't  hurt  you,  and,  as  I  understand  it,  you  can  study 
about  what  you  choose  if  you  don't  take  a  notion  to 
theology.  They  tell  me  there  isn't  any  better  place  to 
put  a  convenient  addition  to  a  college  education  than  a 
theological  seminary.  Of  course,  you  know  more  about 
that  than  I  ;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  there  couldn't  be 
anything  better  for  a  colt  that's  been  a  little  overtrained 
than  to  turn  him  loose  in  a  pasture  and  let  him  pick. 
You've  had  to  stick  to  the  regular  course  in  college. 
Now  why  not  go  to  the  seminary  and  pick  out  your  own 
course  ?  If  it  don't  lead  to  the  ministry,  it's  dollars  to 
dimes  that  it  will  lead  to  the  very  place  you  ought  to  go. 
Besides,  you'll  be  right  in  the  city  with  Deely.  She 
don't  graduate  until  next  summer,  and  I  expect  she'd  be 
lonesome  enough  if  she  didn't  see  you  once  or  twice  a 


Dtity  Runs  with  Inclination.  219 

week.  I  guess  she's  seen  you  as  often  as  that  for  the 
past  two  years,  hasn't  she  ?" 

"  Well — yes,"  answered  the  young-  collegian,  with  a 
blush. 

"  Nothing  to  be  ashamed  of,  my  son.  A  man  that's 
ashamed  of  honest  love  isn't  fit  to  have  a  sweetheart ; 
and  if  there  ever  was  a  girl  that  was  just  as  near  perfec- 
tion as  womankind  ever  gets,  her  name  is  Delia  Kin- 
caid.  Her  love  has  been  so  much  a  matter  of  course, 
that  1  don't  believe  you  half  appreciate  your  good  for- 
tune. I  never  saw  anything  like  it.  I  don't  believe 
she's  had  a  thought  of  the  future  since  she  was  a  dozen 
years  old  without  putting  you  in  the  foreground  of  her 
dream.  Suppose  you  should  lose  her !  I  don't  want 
to  alarm  you,"  he  added  hastily,  seeing  the  pallor  in  the 
young  man's  face,  "  but  she  don't  seem  very  well  of  late  ; 
been  studying  too  hard,  I  suppose.  I've  always  told 
Kincaid  he'd  kill  her,  and  I'm  afraid  he  will,  if  you  don't 
look  sharp  and  prevent  it." 

"  What  can  I  do  ?"  Hubert  asked,  gazing  earnestly 
into  his  uncle's  face. 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'd  do  in  your  place.  Take  a 
horse  with  you  when  you  go  back,  and  get  an  order 
from  her  mother  to  the  president,  or  whatever  they  call 
the  head  of  the  school  she  is  attending,  for  her  to  go 
out  with  you  two  or  three  times  a  week,  or  as  often  as 
you  choose.  That  would  be  a  good  thing  for  both  of 
you.  It'll  improve  her  health  and  make  you  contented. 
It  will  do  you  good,  too.  A  young  man  can't  be  with  a 
girl  like  her  too  often. 

"  It  may  be  you  haven't  any  call  to  preach.  'Tisn't 
every  man  that  has,  and  it's  lucky  it's  so  ;  but  I  wouldn't 
back  out  of  anything  I'd  set  in  for  until  I  knew  for  cer- 
tain that  wasn't  my  hold.  There's  plenty  of  places  in 
the  world  for  you  to  do  a  man's  work  outside  of  a  pul- 


220  A  Son  of  Old  Harry, 

pit ;  but  it  always  seems  to  me  a  young  man  ought  to 
take  a  year  or  so  after  he's  through  college  to  loaf 
around,  look  the  world  in  the  face,  and  determine  just 
how  he'll  tackle  it.  I  think  we  are  on  the  threshold  of 
great  events.  Being  in  politics  lately  has  given  me  a 
wider  outlook  than  I  used  to  have.  No  man  has  a  right 
to  live  for  himself  in  a  republic.  There  are  great  ques- 
tions coming  on  to  be  decided  pretty  soon.  They  are 
too  big  for  me.  Some  of  them  I  think  I  could  deter- 
mine after  a  fashion  ;  of  others  I  cannot  even  guess  at 
the  solution.  I  have  thought  you  might,  perhaps,  do 
something  in  this  direction,  if  you  shouldn't  care  to  be 
a  preacher.  It  will  require  manhood,  courage,  and 
brain  ;  of  that  I  am  sure.  How  they  will  be  applied  or 
where  they  will  come  from,  I  do  not  know.  Of  one 
thing  you  may  be  certain  :  the  country,  the  American 
Republic,  means  more  than  we  have  ever  thought — to 
the  world,  I  mean.  Up  to  this  time  it  has  been  our 
country  ;  after  this  it  will  be  the  world's.  Until  now, 
we  have  followed  the  world  ;  have  taken  lessons  from 
other  countries,  and  counted  ourselves  successful  just  in 
proportion  to  our  success  in  imitating  their  institutions 
or  improving  on  them.  After  a  little  we  are  going  to 
lead.  You  will  live  to  see  the  time  when  our  country 
will  be  the  foremost  nation  of  the  world,  and  when  the 
now  almost  unoccupied  West  will  be  the  real  seat  of 
empire.  At  such  a  time  it  cannot  be  bad  policy  to  wait 
a  while,  in  the  meantime  studying  the  forces  and  condi- 
tions of  our  life,  before  determining  just  where  you  will 
make  a  plunge  into  the  great  conflict. 

"  Don't  confine  yourself  to  study.  Stay  at  the  semi- 
nary, and  don't  neglect  study  ;  but  mingle  with  people  ; 
observe  public  affairs  ;  get  out  into  the  air  and  be  a  man 
among  men. 

"  Here's  my  idea."  continued  the  uncle,  rising  from 


Duty  Runs  with  Inclination.  221 

his  chair  and  walking  back  and  forth  on  the  lawn : 
"  Whatever  you  are  going  to  do  you  need  variety  and 
extent  of  observation.  Why  not  take  a  horse  and  sulky 
and  drive  back  to  the  city  ?  Take  your  time  for  it ;  go 
where  you  please  ;  see  whatever  you  have  not  seen  that 
lies  along  the  way.  It's  not  a  very  extended  course  of 
travel ;  perhaps  you  will  want  a  longer  one  some  time. 
You  may  want  to  go  abroad  next  year.  There  isn't  any 
reason  why  you  shouldn't,  that  I  know  of.  Then  you 
would  wish  you  knew  your  own  country  more  thoroughly. 
When  you  get  back  to  the  city  keep  the  horse  and  drive 
him  every  day.  You've  got  the  knack  of  training  a  nag — 
getting  the  best  out  of  him — and  I  don't  see  why  you 
shouldn't  make  some  money,  and  at  the  same  time  give 
yourself  a  little  more  color — put  yourself  in  better  condi- 
tion than  you  are  now.  I  think  that's  half  what's  the 
matter  ;  you  need  the  open  air,  exercises  and  something 
to  interest  you,  outside  of  books." 

**  You  remember,  I've  taken  that  trip  once,"  said  the 
young  man,  with  a  smile. 

"  Yes  ;  you  went  East  with  a  drove  and  saw  more  of 
life  in  forty  days  than  you  had  ever  seen  before  or  have 
seen  since.  Have  you  any  notion  how  the  world  has 
changed  even  in  those  few  years  ?  There  are  no  more 
droves  crowding  the  roads  eastward.  We  met  the 
locomotive  just  west  of  Buffalo,  then.  Do  you  remem- 
ber that  evening  when  you  first  saw  its  fiery  eye  headed 
westward  along  the  lake  shore  ?  There  were  small  cities 
of  **  paddy  houses  "  built  all  along  the  track,  where  the 
work  was  still  going  on.  You  wondered  if  it  would  ever 
reach  Ortonville.  Two  years  afterward  you  came  home 
without  doing  a  mile  of  staging.  All  the  droves  go  on 
the  railroads  now.  In  a  few  years,  a  man  who  has  ridden 
or  driven  from  the  East  to  the  West,  or  from  the  West 
to  the  East,  will  be  a  curiosity." 


222  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

"It's  a  pretty  long  drive,"  said  Hubert,  rising  and 
joining  his  uncle  in  his  walk. 

"  You've  got  plenty  of  time,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do. 
You've  seen  that  big  bay  in  the  south  barn  ?" 

Hubert  nodded. 

"  Ever  paid  any  particular  attention  to  him  ?" 

"  I  noticed  that  he  was  big  and  homely,  and  I  judged — 
old." 

"  There's  where  you  are  mistaken.  I  thought  so,  too^ 
at  first,  and  was  never  more  surprised  in  my  life  than 
when  I  opened  his  jaws  and  saw  as  pretty  a  six-year  old 
mouth  as  you  ever  looked  at.  I  expect  his  dam  must 
have  been  old  when  he  was  foaled.  That  sometimes 
makes  a  colt  look  like  a  patriarch,  you  know.  Well, 
that  horse's  got  something  in  him." 

Hubert  smiled  significantly. 

"  You  think  he'll  need  a  good  deal  in  him,  eh  ?  Well, 
that's  true,  too  ;  he's  a  big  horse  and  a  big  eater,  even 
for  his  size  ;  but  that  ungainly  fellow  is  going  to  dis- 
appoint heaps  of  people  before  he  quits  going  up  and 
down   *  on  this  terrestrial  ball.' 

"  Where'd  I  run  across  him  ?  Over  in  Pennsylvania — 
Titusville.  Went  there  to  inquire  into  this  rock-oil 
business ;  a  friend  of  mine  was  interested  in  it.  Looks 
as  if  it  was  going  to  be  a  big  thing,  but  I  don't  see  just 
how  it's  going  to  be  handled.  He  was  drawing  barrels 
— the  horse,  I  mean — backing  his  loads  on  to  the  boats 
without  any  driving  to  speak  of.  He  took  my  eye  by 
his  intelligence  and  strength.  One  morning  I  saw  the 
boys  racing  back  to  the  stable  after  having  ridden  the 
horses  to  water.  This  big  fellow  was  so  far  ahead  that 
none  of  the  rest  were  in  it.  Heavens  !  What  a  stride^! 
What  an  arm  !  What  a  shoulder  !  What  a  thigh  !" 

"  And  what  a  foot  ?"  interjected  Hubert  with  a  laugh. 

"Yes,  and  what  afoot !"  assented  the  uncle.    "  That's 


Duty  Runs  ivith  Inclination.  223 

just  what  I  said,  'What  a  foot !'  Did  one  ever  see  its 
equal  ?  Chris  insists  that  he  ought  to  have  double 
price  for  shoeing  him.  But  in  spite  of  his  feet,  I  saw  at 
once  that  he  was  a  great  horse — or  might  have  been.  I 
thought  he  was  old  then.  I  sauntered  around  to  the 
stable  after  breakfast,  looked  him  over,  learned  his  age, 
and  bought  him  out  of  hand  for  what  was  thought  a 
pretty  stiff  price.  I  wouldn't  take  ten  times  as  much 
for  him  now.  Yet  nobody  thinks  him  fast.  I  have 
jogged  him  a  little,  and  taken  him  down  to  '  Number 
Two,'  to  try  him  once  or  twice.  The  way  he  handles 
those  big  feet  would  astonish  you.  I  don't  know  his 
pedigree  yet ;  he's  evidently  a  Patchen  or  a  brother  of 
Patchen — I'm  inclined  to  think  a  brother.  His  dam 
must  have  been  a  good  one,  though,  for  he  certainly 
received  that  head  as  a  direct  inheritance  from  Rysdyk's 
Hambletonian — couldn't  have  got  it  anywhere  else.  I 
believe  with  good  handling  that  horse  can  lower  any 
record  that's  been  made.  Now,  why  not  take  him,  use 
him  as  long  as  you  need,  and  along  in  the  spring  sell 
him.  You  are  in  a  good  place  to  do  it.  There's  a  track 
there,  and  lots  of  men  that  want  speed  and  are  willing 
to  pay  for  it.  I'll  make  you  a  present  of  him,  Hubert, 
if  you'll  do  it.     Let's  go  and  have  a  look  at  him. " 

The  two  men  sauntered  off  toward  the  stables. 

Horace  Goodwin  was  a  shrewd  man,  and  he  had 
touched,  in  his  remarks,  the  three  strongest  forces  in  the 
young  man's  nature — his  reverence  for  his  father,  his 
love  for  his  betrothed  and  his  fondness  for  a  horse — and 
had  made  through  each  a  cogent  appeal  for  the  course 
he  advised.  It  is  hardly  strange  that  the  young  man 
yielded  to  such  urging. 

'is.- 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A  SURPRISE  PARTY  ON  THE  BAY  ROAD. 

It  was  early  winter,  Hubert  Goodwin  had  been  a 
student  of  theology'  for  a  whole  term.  He  had  deter- 
rnined  to  remain  during  the  year,  though  a  feeling 
strongly  antipathetic  to  a  farther  continuance  of  the 
course  marked  out  for  him  had  already  sprung  up  in  his 
heart.  The  events  of  the  year  had  been  momentous. 
They  had  fixed  his  attention  on  other  matters,  and  made 
the  ministerial  profession  seem  to  him  dull  and  insipid 
in  comparison  with  a  life  of  activity  and  tangible  achieve- 
ment. Added  to  this,  he  had  had  something  approach- 
ing an  estrangement  with  his  betrothed.  On  his  pro- 
posing weekly  or  semi-weekly  rides,  she  had  frankly 
pointed  out  the  unseemliness  of  the  proposal  to  one  in 
her  situation.  The  truth  was  that  her  ambition  stood 
in  the  way  of  the  weekly  outings  quite  as  much  as  her 
sense  of  propriety.  She  had  fixed  her  heart  on  gradu- 
ating first  in  her  class,  and  she  had  many  rivals  in  the 
Brainerd  Classical  Institute  for  Ladies,  whose  ambition 
was  as  keen  as  her  own,  and  whom  she  had  hitherto  dis- 
tanced only  by  the  most  unremitting  application. 
Hubert  did  not  take  kindly  to  this  check  upon  his  care- 
fully matured  plans.  He  did  not  realize  how  dear  her 
ambition  was  to  her.     He  looked  with  all  the  manly 


A  Surprise  Party  on  the  Bay  Road,    225 

scorn  of  one  who  has  secured  a  Latin  certificate  of 
scholarship  from  a  college  duly  authorized  to  confer 
degrees,  upon  the  first  honor  of  the  Brainerd  Classical 
Institute,  and  never  once  imagined  that,  saving  her  love 
for  him,  this  was  the  one  thing  on  which  the  daughter 
of  Marshall  Kincaid  had  set  her  fiery  heart  with  inflex- 
ible purpose.  The  loss  of  love  w6uld  kill  her,  but  she 
would  rather  not  live  than  fail  of  her  ambition.  It  was 
a  foolish  notion,  but  in  those  days,  when  high  attain- 
ment was  more  difficult  for  women,  it  was  a  worthy 
ambition  for  one  who  had  long  before  determined  to  be 
a  co-worker  with  the  man  she  loved.  Hubert  Goodwin 
did  not  understand  these  things,  and  felt  himself  seriously 
aggrieved  by  her  refusal  to  adopt  the  plan  he  had  marked 
out  for  their  year's  sojourn  in  the  city.  It  made  him 
moody  and  discontented,  and  though  he  did  not  neglect 
his  studies  he  felt  little  interest  in  the  life  of  the  sem- 
inary. 

The  mark  upon  his  heel  began  to  annoy  him,  too. 
The  horse  which  he  had  driven  from  home  had  shown 
such  qualities  as  to  awaken  all  his  latent  desire  for 
equine  association  and  admiration  for  equine  excellence. 
He  had  placed  him  with  a  farmer,  just  outside  the  city, 
and  thither  he  repaired  on  Wednesday  and  Friday 
afternoons  of  each  week  to  give  him  exercise  and  train- 
ing. He  often  remained  over  Saturday  and  sometimes 
until  Monday.  The  farmer's  daughter,  a  bright,  spirited, 
intelligent  girl,  took  great  interest  in  the  horse  left  in 
her  father's  care,  and  still  greater  interest  in  the  young 
theologian  who  stole  away  from  his  seminary  to  speed 
and  train  him.  She  often  rode  with  him  and  fully 
shared  his  confidence  in  the  horse  which  he  was  secretly 
preparing  to  take  a  place  among  the  noted  steeds  of  his 
time.     Her  sympathy  was  very  pleasant,  and  it  was  not 


226  A   Son  of  'Old  Harry. 

long-  before  Hubert  found  himself  counting  on  her  wel- 
come and  confiding  to  her  his  hopes  and  difi&culties. 

He  did  not  once  think  of  loving  any  one  but  Delia 
Kincaid,  but,  seeing  little  of  her,  he  naturally  appropri- 
ated the  sympathy  and  appreciation  which  were  nearer 
at  hand.  -  He  had  not  hidden  the  fact  of  his  engage- 
ment from  his  new  friend.  Perhaps  the  very  knowledge 
of  it  had  served  to  draw  them  closer  together.  At  any 
rate,  it  was  with  a  curious  feeling  of  tmaccustomedness, 
that  one  Saturday,  in  the  early  winter,  he  found  himself 
waiting  on  the  platform  beside  the  drive,  which  circled 
in  front  of  the  Brainerd  Classical  Institute,  at  which  the 
guests  were  accustomed  to  dismount,  holding  the  reins, 
and  awaiting  the  appearance  of  Delia  Kincaid.  He  had 
written  fixing  the  hour  and  knew  that  she  would  be 
expecting  his  arrival.  He  did  not,  therefore,  hitch  the 
horse  and  climb  the  imposing  steps  to  announce  him- 
self, but  knocked  his  feet  together  and  stamped  back 
and  forth  upon  the  platform  to  stir  the  blood  during  the 
brief  moments  of  waiting.  The  cold  was  not  severe, 
but  an  hour's  ride  had  given  him  a  sense  of  numbness 
and  chili. 

At  length  the  door  opened,  and  Delia  ran  down  the 
steps,  along  the  path  with  its  heaped-up  bank  of  snow 
on  either  side,  and  stood  beside  him  upon  the  platform. 

"  Isn't  it  jolly  !"  she  exclaimed,  giving  him  her  hand, 
and  glancing  from  him  to  the  sleigh,  with  undisguised 
mirth.  "  Haven't  I  obeyed  orders  ?  But  what  does  it 
all  mean  ?  You  ought  to  have  seen  Miss  Brainerd  when 
I  showed  her  your  note.  '  It  is  certainly  a  very  strange 
request,'  she  said,  '  but  Mr.  Goodwin  is  so  careful  of  you 
there  can  be  n6  impropriety  in  complying.  They  are 
probably  going  to  have  a  masquerade  sleigh-ride,  or 
something  of  that  sort.'  So  I  made  bold  to  ask  if  she 
had  something  that  would  do  for  the  occasion,  and  she 


A  Surprise  Party  on  the  Bay  Road.    227 

hunted  up  this  cloak  which  was  out  of  fashion  years 
before  I  was  born,  and  oif ered  me  a  bonnet  of  the  time 
of  *  Tippecanoe  and  Tyler,  too,'  but  I  thought  that  was 
a  little  too  much,  and  so  put  on  this  hood.  You  know 
it  is  *  countrified,'  for  you've  ridden  with  it  before. 
That  was  what  you  wanted,  I  believe,  *  countrified  I' 
What  impertinence!  To  ask  a  young-  lady  to  make 
herself  look  *  countrified !'  Do  I  look  '  countrified ' 
enough  to  please  you,  sir  ?" 

She  pirouetted  gracefully  before  him,  as  he  stood  with 
the  reins  in  his  hand,  waiting  to  assist  her  into  the 
sleigh,  looking  up  archly  as  she  concluded  the  movement, 
as  if  challenging  his  verdict. 

"  I  guess  you'll  do,"  was  the  laconic  answer,  though, 
the  young  man's  eyes  sparkled  with  admiration  as  they 
took  in  the  slight  form  snugly  wrapped  in  a  long,  blue 
cloak  of  antique  pattern  surmounted  by  a  quilted  silk 
hood  which  matched  the  cloak  in  color,  and  was  dotted 
over  with  white  tufts  like  snow  flakes,  while  underneath 
its  cape  rippled  down  upon  the  cloak  a  cataract  of  pale 
golden  curls. 

"  Don't  you  dare  look  around,"  she  continued,  banter- 
ingly,  "  Every  girl  in  Brainerd  Institute  is  watching 
us,  and  I'm  sure  every  last  one  of  them  would  fall  in 
love  with  you,  if  they  should  get  a  fair  view  of  that 
costume.  And  how  terrible  that  would  be  !  Think  of 
three  hundred  and  twenty-one  girls,  besides  a  score  of 
more  or  less  experienced  teachers,  all  in  love  with  the 
same  fellow  !" 

Of  course,  Hubert  stole  a  glance  at  the  windows  of 
the  Institute,  and  found  that  each  one  framed  a  group 
of  smiling  faces. 

"  They're  all  agog  to  see  us  off,"  said  the  girl,  in  a 
low,  confidential  tone,  as  she  gathered  her  skirts  about 
her  knees,  and  taking  his  hand,  sprang  lightly  into  the 


2  28  A  Son  of  Old  Marry. 

sleigh.  "  I  don't  wonder,  either,"  she  continued,  as  he 
tucked  the  great  buffalo  robe  about  her,  and  then  stand- 
ing on  the  rave,  knocked  one  foot  after  the  other  against 
it  to  remove  the  snow.  "  You  and  Henlopen  and  this 
old  sleigh  do  make  a  picture.  Henlopen  is  no  beauty 
at  any  time,  but  with  that  harness  and  that  cutter,  he's 
better  than  a  circus.  Just  look  at  him  !  I  thought  I 
should  have  died  of  laughing  when  they  called  me  to 
see  you  coming  up  the  drive." 

The  horse  of  which  she  spoke  was  a  dead,  blood-bay, 
high  in  the  withers,  seemingly  raw-boned,  though  a 
second  glance  showed  him  to  be  in  fine  condition  ;  so 
deep  in  the  chest  as  to  convey  the  impression  that  he 
was  light  behind,  though  the  close  observer  would  have 
seen  that,  while  finely  gathered  at  the  loin,  there  was 
an  unusual  length  and  harmonious  slope  of  thigh  which 
indicated  great  propelling  power.  A  long  tail,  fine  and 
silky,  carried  with  a  swaying  droop,  tended  to  enhance 
the  false  impression  as  to  the  strength  of  the  quarters, 
while  the  thin,  light  mane,  which  fell  half-way  down 
the  long  straight  neck,  held  always  upon  the  level  of 
the  withers,  increased  the  impression  of  its  length  and 
thickness.  From  the  end  of  this  a  great  lean  head 
depended,  with  large  mobile  ears  and  a  muzzle  singularly 
full  and  heavy.  Big  bony  legs  supported  this  unattrac- 
tive superstructure,  ending  in  hoofs  of  apparently 
unusual  size,  though,  when  the  weight  of  the  animal 
was  taken  into  consideration,  one  found  that  it  was  the 
fine-drawn  lines  of  the  strong  flat  legs  rather  than  the 
size  of  the  hoof  itself  which  gave  this  impression, 

"  Why  do  you  insist  on  driving  such  a  horse.  Jack  .'" 
asked  the  young  lady,  as  the  great  animal  strode  lazily 
down  the  drive  to  the  street. 

"  You  haven't  seen  him  move  lately." 

"  How  should  I  ?" 


A  Surprise  Party  on  the  Bay  Road.    229 

"  That's  what  I  brought  him  on  here  for  ;  I  wanted 
to  take  you  out  once  or  twice  every  week." 

"  But  you  know,  Jack,  Miss  Brainerd  did  not  approve 
of — of  such  frequent  rides." 

"  You  have  your  mother's  permission." 

"  But  she  did  not  know,  and  Miss  Brainerd  has  to 
consider  so  many  things.  She  was  willing  we  should 
go  once  in  two  weeks — a  whole  half -day,  if  we  chose.  I 
think  she  was  very  reasonable." 

"  You  know  your  health  demands  fresh  air,  and  a 
good  deal  of  it." 

**  O,  I  have  been  very  careful,  because  I  knew  you 
were  anxious,"  she  said,  stealing  a  glance  at  her  com- 
panion. He  was  looking  straight  forward  at  his  horse, 
with  evident  traces  of  displeasure  on  his  countenance. 
"  I  thought  we  would  have  such  nice  times,  but  you 
haven't  come — not  near  as  often  as  you  might." 

"  I  thought  you  were  getting  tired  of  me." 

"  Now,  Jack — "  There  was  a  tremor  in  the  fresh 
young  voice,  and  the  girl  looked  off  over  the  snowy 
level  to  hide  the  tears  that  crept  out  on  the  silken  lashes 
despite  her  determination  to  keep  them  back. 

The  Brainerd  Classical  Institute  for  Ladies  stood  just 
outside  the  city.  The  first  heavy  snow  of  the  season 
lay  soft  and  smooth  upon  the  ground,  showing  steel- 
blue  shadows  along  the  fences  and  under  the  edges  of 
the  few  drifts  which  had  formed  as  it  fell.  It  had 
been  beaten  down  into  level  tracks  before  the  weather 
became  severe,  and  now  the  dry,  cold  snow,  creaking 
under  the  runners  but  not  crumbling  with  the  weight 
of  the  horse,  formed  the  very  perfection  of  a  sleighing 
track.  They  were  driving  toward  the  city,  the  great 
bay  consuming  the  space  with  long,  swinging  strides 
whose  beauty  was  then  unnoticed  but  which  were 
destined  very  soon  to  be  the  admiration  of  many, 


230  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

"  Where  did  you  get  this  rig,  Jack  ?" 

"  Out  in  the  country." 

"  Did  you  get  that  hat  and  coat  there,  too  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  ain't  they  stunning  ?" 

"  That  depends  ;  if  we  had  a  basket  or  two  I  think  we 
would  make  a  very  good  country  couple  going  to 
market." 

"  Or  returning  from  it.  By  Jove,  Dee,  you've  struck 
it!"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  with  enthusiasm.  "  I'll 
stop  at  the  very  next  grocery  and  get  them." 

"  But  what  does  it  mean  1     Is  it  a  masquerade  ?" 

"  Rather,"  with  a  quizzical  smile.  '*  Henlopen  makes 
his  debut  to-day." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Wait  until  I  get  those  baskets  and  I'll  tell  you." 

He  drew  up  before  a  grocery  store,  and  sprang  out. 
The  grocer  stared  at  the  curious  figure  that  entered,  and 
still  more  at  the  order  he  gave.  An  old  russet-brown 
overcoat,  with  a  cape,  and  high,  fur-lined  collar,  a  wide- 
brimmed,  high-crowned  white  fur  hat,  and  red  woolen 
mittens,  having  separate  forefingers,  the  thumb  and 
forefinger  lined  with  soft  buckskin,  were  the  salient 
points  of  the  costume.  Whether  the  man  was  young  or 
old,  required  a  second  glance  to  determine.  He  ordered 
a  couple  of  market-baskets  to  be  filled  with  eggs  and 
vegetables,  which  he  placed  in  the  sleigh  so  as  to  be  in 
plain  sight,  though  apparently  intended  to  be  covered 
by  the  robe.  Having  paid  for  his  purchases,  he  took  his 
place  beside  his  surprised  companion. 

"  Do  tell  me.  Jack,  what  all  this  means  ?"  pleaded  the 
young  lady,  as  they  drove  off. 

"  Well,  you  know.  Dee,  I  brought  Henlopen  on  here, 
just  to  ride  with  you — Uncle  Horace  gave  him  to  me  for 
that  express  purpose.  I  expected  to  keep  him  until 
spring,  and  then  get  him  into  shape  and  sell  him.    Of 


A  Surprise  Parly  on  the  Bay  Road.    231 

course,  that  wouldn't  be  much  trouble  if  we  drove  him 
once  or  twice  a  week  all  winter.  Such  a  horse  needs 
work  and  lots  of  it,  and  that's  all  he  does  need.  When 
I  found  you  didn't  care  about  riding  after  him — " 

"  But  I  did,  Jack." 

"  Well " — with  an  expressive  shrug — "  once  a  fortnight 
isn't  enough  to  count.  It  was  no  use  to  keep  a  horse 
for  that ;  so  I  put  him  out  in  the  country  with  a  farmer 
I  happened  to  know,  and  went  out  to  drive  him  every 
Wednesday  and  Friday  afternoons." 

"  Is  that  where  you  have  been  Saturdays  ?" 

"  Mostly.  I  made  up  my  mind,  you  see,  that  I  might 
as  well  sell  the  horse  this  winter  as  next  summer. 
There's  a  lot  of  fancy  horsemen  here  in  the  city  who  are 
fond  of  speeding  their  nags  out  on  the  Bay  Road  when 
the  sleighing  is  good.  There's  Mr.  Sedley,  with  that 
span  of  blacks  which  he  thinks  will  lay  over  any  straight 
trotter  in  this  region  ;  and  Tom  Burton,  with  his  gray 
pacer,  which  has  all  he  can  do  to  keep  even  step  with 
them  ;  and  a  dozen  more,  real  '  goers,'  that  are  sure  to 
be  out  on  a  day  like  this." 

He  glanced  up  at  the  dull,  leaden  sky  as  he  spoke, 
and  continued  : 

"  You  see  it's  a  perfect  day  ;  no  wind  or  sun,  not  cool 
enough  to  be  uncomfortable,  nor  soft  enough  to  make  a 
horse  ball  up.     Oh,  they're  sure  to  be  out !" 

"  Well,  what  if  they  are  ?" 

"  What  if  they  are  ?  Why,  I'm  going  to  introduce 
them  to  Henlopen,  and  show  'em  how  to  trot ;  that's 
all." 

"  In  this  rig  ?" 

"  Nothing  else.  Don't  you  be  afraid  ;  this  isn't  as  bad 
a  *  rig'  as  you  might  think.  The  harness  is  a  little  heavy, 
but  it  fits  him  and  he's  used  to  it.  The  sleigh  looks 
heavy,  too,  but  the  runners  are  hard  cast-iron  and  have 


232  A  Soft  of  Old  Harry. 

a  smooth,  glassy  surface  that  does  not  stick  or  cling  to 
stones  or  sand  like  the  lighter  wrought-iron  casing  of 
the  modern  sleigh.  So,  on  the  whole,  we're  not  so  badly 
fixed.     Besides,  Henlopen   is  as  strong  as  an  elephant." 

"  But — can  he  trot  ?"  asked  the  girl,  incredulously. 
♦'  Oh,  of  course  he  can !  I  might  have  known,"  she 
added,  hastily. 

"  Trust  a  Goodwin  to  know  a  horse,"  Hubert  answered, 
almost  bitterly.  "  I  haven't  got  a  red  spur  on  my  heel 
for  nothing.  Did  you  think  I  brought  him  all  the  way 
from  home  for  his  beauty  ?" 

"  I  didn't  know — you  didn't  tell  me — "  apologetically. 

"  I  wanted  to  surprise  you,  but — no  matter.  Here  we 
are  at  the  Bay  Road,  and  there's  Sedley  with  his  blacks. 
Now  you'll  see  some  fun.  I  hope  Parker  is  somewhere 
about ;  it  will  do  him  a  world  of  good." 

"  Who  is  he  ?" 

**  The  farmer  who  looks  after  Henlopen." 

The  Bay  Road  was  a  lively  scene  at  that  moment. 
Gay  costumes,  beautiful  equipages  and  fine  horses  filled 
the  broad,  gently  curving  avenue,  which  was  renowned 
as  the  best  winter  trotting  course  in  the  world.  It  was 
in  splendid  condition,  and  the  fashion  and  fancy  of  the 
city  were  out  in  force  to  enjoy  it.  Bells  tinkled,  whips 
cracked,  shouts  and  laughter  prevailed ;  everything 
testified  to  the  keen  enjoyment  of  the  drivers,  spectators, 
and  even  the  sleek,  finely  trained  beasts  themselves, 
from  whose  flying  feet  flew  backward  a  hail  of  beaten 
snow  under  the  high -perched  sleighs. 

A  portion  of  this  course  was  especially  reserved  for 
trials  of  speed.  On  one  side  of  this  there  was  an  open 
space  where  both  foot-passengers  and  sleighs  might 
stand  and  see  the  frequently  recurring  contests,  while 
on  the  other  side,  the  stream  of  gay  equipages  flowed 
steadily  on  without  interrupting  the  sport.     As  if  by 


A  Surprise  Party  on  the  Bay  Road,    233 

accident,  Hubert  drove  into  the  space  reserved  for  trials 
of  speed,  in  the  very  track  of  a  pair  of  glossy  blacks, 
gayly  caparisoned,  and  attached  to  a  sleigh  which, 
although  containing  four  persons,  seemed  formed  of 
spider-webs  in  comparison  with  the  clumsy  affair  which 
Henlopen  was  steadily  and  unconcernedly  dragging 
along. 

A  chorus  of  warnings  and  objurgations  greeted  this 
piece  of  awkwardness  on  the  part  of  the  supposed 
countryman, 

"Get  out  of  the  way  !"  called  out  the  driver  of  tlie 
blacks,  who  were  just  settling  down  to  accept  the 
challenge  of  a  slender  limbed  chestnut,  which  had  stolen 
noiselessly  up,  and  now  threatened  to  slip  by  the  cham- 
pion trotters  of  the  Bay  Road. 

"  Get  out  of  the  way  !"  roared  the  crowd,  anxious  to 
see  the  trial  of  speed  between  the  renowned  roadsters 
and  their  bold  challenger. 

"Tip  him  over  !" 

"  Pitch  him  out !" 

"  Drive  over  him  !" 

"  Come  out.  Country  !" 

"  What  have  you  got  to  sell  ?" 

These  were  some  of  the  cries  that  greeted  the  appar- 
ently unconscious  driver  of  Henlopen. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked,  looking  around  in 
well-assumed  surprise.  "Want  to  go  by  us,  mister?" 
glancing  over  his  shoulder  at  the  driver  of  the  blacks. 

"  Get  out  of  the  way  !"  was  the  angry  rejoinder. 

In  an  instant,  the  heads  of  the  blacks  were  even  with 
the  dash-board  of  the  old-fashioned  cutter.  In  another 
second,  the  black  hoofs  were  throwing  a  shower  of  crisp 
snow  into  the  cutter,  which  forced  Delia  to  hide  her 
head  under  the  robe. 

"  Gee-wJiillikins !"     exclaimed     Hubert,     snatching 


234  -^  '^^^  <^f  ^^^  Harry. 

awkwardly  at  his  reins.     The  crowd  laughed   at  the 
countryman's  comical  plight. 

"  Tsst — tsst — tsst — tsst !"  A  sharp,  broken  sibilation 
came  from  Hubert's  slightly  parted  lips.  The  big  bay 
gathered  his  feet  under  him  ;  his  driver  leaned  back, 
pulling  wildly  upon  the  reins  ;  but  the  sharp  recurring 
sibilation  continued.  The  trim  blacks  were  already  at 
the  bay's  head.  Then  the  long  ears  dropped  back  upon 
the  neck,  the  great  coarse  muzzle  was  outstretched,  and 
side  by  side  with  the  crack  roadsters,  Henlopen,  with 
easy,  magnificent  strides,  swept  over  the  fancy  course. 
The  crowd  laughed  and  cheered.  Of  course,  it  was 
only  a  spurt  ;  the  old  bay  would  break  in  a  moment. 

But  he  did  not  break.  For  a  while,  the  mocking 
cheers  were  hushed  in  surprise,  only  to  break  out  again 
in  genuine  admiration.  The  driver  of  the  blacks  loos- 
ened the  reins  and  gave  his  horses  a  cluck  of  encourage- 
ment. They  shrank  closer  to  the  ground,  and  the 
polished  ebon  legs  flew  back  and  forth  as  if  impelled  by 
electric  force.  But  still  the  great  coarse  muzzle  held  its 
place,  half  open  now,  with  two  rows  of  ivory  shining 
between  the  back-drawn  lips,  while  an  angry  eye  shone 
over  the  brown,  cracked  blinker,  which  fell  backward 
when  the  driver  pulled  the  reins. 

And  how  he  did  pull !  He  leaned  back  in  his  seat 
and  braced  his  feet  against  the  front  of  the  sleigh,  knock- 
ing out,  one  after  another,  the  baskets,  whose  contents 
rolled  and  scattered  about  the  smooth  track,  adding  by 
their  heterogeneous  character  very  greatly  to  the 
amusement  of  the  spectators.  Delia  nestled  her  head 
against  her  lover's  shoulder,  to  hide  her  laughter,  leav- 
ing only  a  peep-hole  underneath  the  hood  through 
which  she  could  see  the  sport.  Every  one  took  this  for 
evidence  of  fright,  and  it  added  greatly  to  the  realism 
of  the  performance. 


A  Surprise  Party  on  the  Bay  Road.   235 

Still  it  was  counted  only  a  spurt,  though  such  a 
remarkable  one  as  to  be  a  good  joke  on  Sedley.  But 
now  the  bay  began  to  draw  away  from  the  quick-step- 
ping blacks.  The  big  horse  showed  no  sign  of  break- 
ing. The  great  hoofs  rose  and  fell  with  the  regularity 
of  a  walking-beam.  The  silky  tail,  half -raised,  swayed 
back  and  forth  like  a  triumphing  banner.  The  mighty 
arms  and  steaming  quarters  assumed  unexpected  lines 
of  beauty.  The  heads  of  the  blacks  fell  steadily  back- 
ward. Now  they  were  opposite  the  dashboard  !  Soon 
the  spray  of  the  off  one's  gleaming  nostril  fell  on  the 
cheek  of  the  spirited  girl,  who,  sitting  bolt  upright  now, 
was  gazing  with  rapt  admiration  at  the  splendid  action 
of  the  horse  before  her.  The  countryman,  with  his 
white  hat  pushed  back  upon  his  head,  held  the  reins 
steadily,  while  from  his  lips  came  now  and  then  the 
keen,  encouraging  sibilation : 

*'  Tsst— tsst— tsst— tsst !" 

The  driver  of  the  blacks  plied  the  whip.  One  of  them 
broke,  and  for  an  instant  they  passed  the  bay's  quarter 
and  lapped  his  shoulder.  The  great  muzzle  went  lower, 
the  black  eyes  flashed  more  wickedly,  the  great  white 
teeth  snapped  angrily  together,  and  the  blacks  fell  back 
again — past  the  sleigh  ! — a  length  ! — another  ! 

Then  the  waiting  multitude  awoke  to  the  fact  that 
they  had  seen  a  remarkable  performance — a  wonderful 
horse,  who,  coming  out  of  obscurity,  had  distanced  at 
the  very  first  trial  the  best  of  all  known  competitors. 
They  cheered  the  big  bay  and  his  driver  as  they  flew 
past,  and  continued  cheering  until  they  passed  the 
second  mile-post  and  disappeared  beyond  the  limits  of 
the  drive,  going  on  down  the  Bay  Road  toward  the 
country.  The  crowd  stared  after  them  in  amazement. 
The  owners  of  fancy-steppers  walked  their  smoking 
steeds   back  and  forth  and    talked  of  the  remarkable 


236  A  Soil  of  Old  Harry, 

event.  It  is  not  often  that  an  attempted  surprise  of 
this  kind  is  a  success.  In  these  days,  the  horses  that 
can  do  great  things  are  usually  known  and  named, 
though  even  now  a  phenomenon  is  sometimes  found  in 
a  butcher's  cart.  At  that  day  such  things  were  much 
less  infrequent.  The  reduction  of  the  best  time  made 
by  a  trotting-team  from  two  minutes  thirty-six  seconds 
to  two  minutes  fourteen  seconds  makes  an  amazing  dif- 
ference in  the  conditions  of  what  is  termed  a  "  flam  "  of 
that  sort. 

"  Who  is  he  ?"  asked  the  driver  of  the  blacks  in  an 
irritated  tone,  as  he  drew  in  his  team  at  the  end  of  the 
accustomed  course. 

*'  Ask  me  something  easy,"  said  one  whose  rig  showed 
him  to  be  familiar  with  such  matters.  "  I  thought  I 
knew  every  horse  and  horseman  in  these  parts,  but  I 
don't  either  of  them." 

"  Better  telegraph  and  find  out.  Colonel,"  said 
another,  not  unwilling  to  jeer  the  beaten  horseman, 

"  Pretty  good  horse  that,  Sedley,"  said  the  driver  of 
the  chestnut,  who  had  fallen  out  of  the  race  as  soon  as 
he  saw  the  struggle  begin  with  the  countryman. 

"Good!"  exclaimed  Sedley,  half-angrily ;  "he's  the 
best  horse  that  ever  struck  a  hoof  on  the  Bay  Road, 
Why,  he  went  away  from  me  as  if  I  were  standing  still  ; 
and  the  blacks  were  going  at  better  than  a  two-forty 
clip,  too.  It's  my  opinion  the  time  of  that  horse  hasn't 
been  beaten  on  any  track — not  often,  anyhow." 

"  The  girl  was  mighty  scared." 

"  Scared  ?     Not  much.     She  was  just  enjoying  it." 

"  Well,  she'd  good  reason  to  ;  no  other  woman  ever 
rode  two  miles  in  as  short  time." 

"  Who'd  have  thought  that  old  countryman  would 
prove  such  a  Tartar  ?" 

"  Countryman  !    There  isn't  a  better  driver  than  he 


A  Surprise  Party  on  the  Bay  Road.   237 

ever  pulled  strings  on  the  Bay  Road,"  said  Sedley,  irrita- 
bly. "  It's  some  professional  who  has  made  a  guy  of 
himself  and  the  girl  just  to  put  up  a  job  on  us." 

"  You  must  admit  he  did  it  well ;  sold  you  out  clean 
and  fair." 

"  So  he  did,"  admitted  Sedley,  with  a  laugh. 

"Want  to  try  it  again.  Colonel  ?" 

"  No  ;  I'm  satisfied.     But  where'd  he  get  that  horse  ?" 

"  Like  to  buy  him,  perhaps  ?" 

"  That  depends.  But  if  he's  not  too  old  and  is  sound, 
he's  worth  a  lot  of  money." 

"  Suppose  he  was  about  seven  now,"  said  a  pleasant- 
faced  man  with  a  bit  of  gray  whisker  under  his  chin, 
who  stood  beside  the  railing. 

"  Seven  ?  He's  fifteen  if  he's  a  day,"  said  the  driver 
of  the  chestnut.  "  I  saw  him  when  he  came  on  the 
track." 

"  So  did  I,"  responded  Sedley  ;  "  and  when  he  went 
off,  too  !" 

"  I  thought  you  were  out  of  sight,  then  !" 

"  Oh,  no  !  I  was  near  enough  to  see  that  he  wasn't 
half  as  old  as  when  he  came  on — and  I  tell  you  if  that 
horse  is  under  ten  and  sound,  he's  worth  more  than  any 
two  that  ever  trotted  on  the  Bay  Road." 

'*  How  much  did  you  give  for  the  blacks,  Colonel  ?" 
asked  one  of  his  friends,  quizzingly. 

"  No  matter  ;  I  stand  by  what  I  say." 

The  man  with  the  gray  whiskers  under  his  chin 
turned  away  with  a  smile  upon  his  face,  and  took  his 
seat  beside  a  girl  with  bright  black  eyes  and  glowing 
cheeks  who  sat  in  a  sleigh  a  little  way  oil. 

"Oh,  papa!"  exclaimed  the  girl,  trembling  with 
excitement,  "  wasn't  it  splendid  !" 

"  Don't  say  a  word,  Kitty,  or  I  shall  explode  !" 

Twenty  minutes   afterward,   Farmer    Parker  drove 


238  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

into  his  barn,  where  Hubert  was  rubbing  down  the  big 
bay,  the  whole  family, .  with  Delia  added  to  their  num- 
ber, standing  by.  The  story  of  the  race  had  already 
been  told,  but  Farmer  Parker,  after  throwing  himself 
upon  a  pile  of  hay  and  giving  vent  to  his  long -repressed 
laughter,  had  to  tell  it  over  again  with  many  interrup- 
tions and  much  uproarious  mirth. 

"  You  are  Miss  Kincaid,  I  suppose  ?"  said  the  black- 
eyed  girl,  approaching  Delia  and  offering  her  hand. 
"  I  am  Kitty  Parker  ;  Mr.  Goodwin  is  too  busy  to 
introduce  us,  but  I  know  all  about  you,  I've  ridden 
after  Ilenlopen  over  the  Bay  Road  many  a  time — after 
dark,  you  know — and  just  envied  you  to-day." 

Delia  Kincaid  felt  an  instinctive  heart-twinge  as  she 
gazed  at  the  pretty  girl  beside  her,  and  wondered  if 
there  had  been  any  other  attraction  for  her  Jack  at 
Farmer  Parker's  besides  Henlopen,  during  the  months 
when  he  had  been  so  assiduous  in  his  attention  to  his 
favorite. 

Naturally  enough  the  facts  in  regard  to  the  affair  on 
the  Bay  Road  leaked  out,  and  people  were  greatly 
scandalized  that  a  pupil  of  the  Brainerd  Classical  Insti- 
tute and  a  student  of  the  Theological  seminary  should 
be  mixed  up  in  such  an  escapade.  Just  what  there  was 
about  the  matter  to  render  it  discreditable,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  say  ;  but  the  faculties  of  both  institutions 
were  greatly  disturbed  by  it.  Delia  was  sharply  cen- 
sured for  her  conduct,  despite  the  fact  that  the  prin- 
cipal of  the  institute  had  assented  to  the  masquerade, 
and  was  informed  that  her  previously  immaculate 
record,  on  which  her  hope  of  receiving  the  first  honor 
at  commencement  depended  had  received  a  serious  stain. 
Hubert  was  notified,  in  terms  more  vigorous  than 
polite,  that  for  the  sake  of  the  good  name  of  the  insti- 
tution,  the  principal  was  compelled  to  request  him  to 


A  Surprise  Party  on  the  Bay  Road.   239 

abstain  from  visiting  the  institute  or  communicating 
with  any  of  its  inmates  in  the  future.  In  a  letter 
stained  with  her  tears,  Delia  Kincaid  begged  him 
for  her  sake  to  comply  with  this  harsh  request.  She 
was  still  determined  to  win  the  first  honor  of  her  class. 
"  I  could  not  meet  my  father  and  mother  if  I  should 
fail  of  that,"  she  wrote.  "  They  have  dreamed  of  it 
every  day  since  I  entered  the  Institute." 

Hubert  was  called  before  the  faculty  of  the  seminary 
also,  some  of  the  members  of  which  were  seriously 
shocked  that  he  manifested  no  regret  for  his  conduct, 
and  refused  to  admit  that  it  was  in  any  degree  repre- 
hensible. Some  proposed  his  expulsion,  others  his  sus- 
pension ;  but  as  he  had  violated  no  rule  of  tbe  insti- 
tution, and  as  his  competitors  on  the  Bay  Road  had 
been  Deacon  Sedley,  one  of  the  most  prominent  mem- 
bers of  the  church,  and  a  very  liberal  patron  of  the 
seminary,  there  seemed  a  sort  of  inconsistency  in  dis- 
ciplining the  theologian  for  what  was  not  blamable  in 
the  deacon.  The  matter  was  all  the  more  difficult 
from  the  fact  that  the  young  man's  conduct  had  been 
in  other  respects  irreproachable.  He  was  not  at  all 
"fast."  He  had  entered  the  seminary  from  a  sense. of 
duty  merely.  He  did  not  claim  to  have  either  a  "  call " 
or  an  inclination  for  the  ministerial  profession,  but  was 
there  in  fulfillment  of  a  promise  made  to  a  dying  father. 
The  horse  was  his  own,  and  there  seemed  to  be  no  good 
reason  why  he  should  not  use  his  hours  of  relaxation  to 
enhance  the  value  of  his  own  property.  Indeed,  the 
president  bluntly  asserted  that  it  would  be  ago6d  thing 
if  some  of  the  other  students  employed  their  leisure  in 
as  healthy  and  profitable  ways.  The  lady  who  was 
with  him  at  the  time  was  his  promised  wife,  and  the 
harmless  masquerade  was  fully  understood  and  approved 
of  by  the   principal   of  the  school  she  was  attending. 


240  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

There  seemed,  indeed,  to  be  "  Nothing  morally  wrong 
about  Mr.  Goodwin's  conduct,"  the  president  shrewdly- 
said,  in  summing  up  the  matter,  **  except  that  his  horse 
was  a  better  one  than  Deacon  Sedley's."  The  presi- 
dent was  not  only  a  sagacious  man,  but  liked  a  good 
horse  himself,  and  facetiously  remarked  that  he  did  not 
think  there  would  be  any  serious  objections  to  Mr. 
Goodwin's  driving  on  the  Bay  Road  every  Saturday,  if 
he  took  one  of  the  faculty  with  him  now  and  then. 

When  next  Henlopen  appeared  on  the  Bay  Road, 
President  Neuman  sat  beside  the  driver.  There  were 
several  brushes,  and  the  big  bay  easily  kept  the  place 
he  had  won  on  his  debut. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  him .?"  asked  the 
president,  as  they  drove  home  one  day,  some  weeks 
later,  after  a  very  pleasant  outing. 

"  Sell  him." 

"  What  do  you  consider  him  worth  ?" 

"  That  depends  upon  his  record." 

"  How  fast  he  will  go,  you  mean  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  an  official  record  of  time  actually  made  upon  a 
public  track." 

"  He  has  never  been  timed,  I  think  you  told  me  ?" 

"  Well,  he  has  never  made  a  record." 

"  What  do  you  think  he  will  do  ?" 

**  A  good  deal  better  than  you  have  seen  him." 

"  Have  you  had  any  offers  for  him  ?" 

"  Colonel  Sedley  has  made  a  bid  for  him  on  condition 
that  he  beats  two  twenty-four." 

"  Do  you  think  he  can  do  it  ?" 

"  I  would  not  have  accepted  it  if  I  had  not  thought 
so." 

"  When  will  the  trial  come  off  .>" 

"  Some  time  in  the  spring." 

"  Will  it  be  public  or  private  ?" 


''The  Calir  241 

"  Private — for  Colonel  Sedley's  satisfaction  only." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  it." 

"  You  can  ;  I  have  a  right  to  have  one  friend  on  the 
stand,  and  you  shall  be  that  one,  if  you  like." 

"  Well,  we  will  see  about  it  when  the  time  comes," 
laughed  the  president. 

From  that  hour  Hubert  Goodwin  felt  that  he  had  a 
friend  in  Dr.  Neuman,  and  there  was  no  lack  of  interest 
on  his  part  in  the  studies  of  the  seminary.  The  princi- 
pal of  the  Brainerd  Institute  modified  her  order  of 
exclusion  after  learning  that  the  young  man  was  so 
staunchly  supported  by  the  president,  and  he  visited 
his  betrothed  once  a  fortnight  during  the  pleasant 
months  that  followed,  while  Destiny  was  silently  shap- 
ing for  him  the  web  of  an  adverse  fate. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  THE    CALL." 


Hubert  Goodwin  heard  at  length  the  "call"  for 
which  he  had  waited.  In  one  instant  all  thought  of 
hesitation  and  indecision  vanished.  War  had  broken 
out !  The  sound  of  battle  echoed  through  the  Sabbath 
stillness  !  The  Confederate  forces  had  opened  fire  on 
Fort  Sumter !  At  the  first  thrill  which  followed,  he 
knew  that  there  was  an  end  of  doubt.  He  had  found, 
if  not  his  vocation,  at  least  his  duty.  He  would  be  a 
soldier.  He  did  not  stop  to  ask  questions.  He  solicited 
no  one's  advice  ;  he  did  not  need  advice.  His  whole 
nature  was  aflame.  There  was  no  questioning  whether 
war  were  right  or  wrong.     His  logic  was   strangely 


242  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

elliptical.  The  defense  of  the  flag — the  maintenance  of 
the  Union — such  a  cause  must  be  right.  Behind  it,  too, 
was  the  thought  of  liberty.  The  Confederacy  repre- 
sented slavery  ;  that  was  its  corner-stone,  one  of  its  cham- 
pions had  said,  and  slavery  was  wrong — must  be 
wrong — so  Hubert  Goodwin  thought,  or  felt,  rather. 

He  did  not  reason  very  profoundly  about  the  matter. 
He  did  not  know  how  the  question  presented  itself  to 
the  Southern  man  ;  perhaps  he  did  not  care  very 
much.  When  the  moment  for  action  comes,  the  time 
for  argument  is  past.  He  did  not  doubt  that  the  South 
was  wrong,  any  more  than  they  who  mustered  under 
her  banner  doubted  that  she  was  right.  He  was  ready 
to  fight  for  liberty  and  union — the  union  his  fathers  had 
established  and  the  liberty  he  had  been  taught  to 
believe  the  holiest  gift  of  God.  He  was  all  the  more 
ardent  because  it  was  not  his  own  liberty,  nor  the  lib- 
erty of  his  kindred,  but  of  a  despised  and  feeble  race 
who  had  been  for  centuries  the  buffeted  foot-ball  of 
Fate.  The  knightly  impulse  is  hidden  in  every  uncor- 
rupted  nature,  and  the  love  of  self-sacrifice  lies  side  by 
side  with  the  love  of  strife  and  glory,  in  every  manly 
heart. 

Besides  this,  Hubert  Goodwin  came  of  manful  stock. 
The  spirit  of  Theophilus  had  not  diluted  the  blood  of 
Sir  Harry.  How  the  mark  upon  his  heel  burned  at  the 
thought  of  conflict !  The  tumult  of  Naseby  and  Pres- 
ton Pans  was  in  his  veins !  The  Puritan  would  stand 
once  more  against  the  cavalier  !  New  entries  in  the 
long  accounting  between  right  and  wrong  would  be 
made  in  blood.  And  he  would  feel  the  shock  of  battle  ! 
He  knew  now  it  was  of  this  that  he  had  dreamed 
through  all  the  peaceful  years  of  youth.  Would  war  be 
as  his  fancy  had  painted  it  ?  No  matter  ;  the  worse  it 
might  be,  the  better  !     His  whole  nature  panted  with 


"  The  Call:'  243 

exultation.  He  burned  to  do,  to  suffer,  to  achieve,  to 
endure — to  die  if  need  be  !  It  was  for  his  country,  he 
said — his  country  and  his  God  ! 

Those  upon  the  other  side  said  the  same  thing.  Two 
moieties  of  a  great  people  prayed  to  the  same  God  that 
Sabbath  morning — the  first  of  a  new  epoch — for  victory 
— the  one  with  the  bells  of  initial  triumph  clanging  in 
their  ears,  the  other  with  the  presage  of  a  primal  defeat 
impending  over  their  prescient  consciousness. 

There  were  hushed  tones  and  solemn  faces  when  the 
students  of  the  seminary  met  in  the  chapel  that  Sabbath 
morning  for  prayer.  These  young  men,  who  had  dedi- 
cated themselves  to  the  Master's  service,  were  looking, 
awed  and  trembling,  upon  the  opening  scene  of  one  of 
those  great  passion-plays  of  history  by  which  the  Most 
Holy  teaches  to  the  world  the  highest  truths.  But 
Hubert  Goodwin  was  content — fliished  and  silent,  but 
peaceful  ;  one  might  say  happy,  but  for  the  seeming 
harshness.  Doubt  was  gone  ;  duty  was  clear ;  danger 
he  did  not  count.  The  venerable  president,  despite  the 
agony  that  rung  his  own  soul,  marked  the  demeanor  of 
the  young  man,  in  whom  he  had  come  to  take  a  peculiar 
interest,  with  some  curiosity. 

"  Well,  Goodwin,"  he  asked,  as  he  returned  the  stu- 
dent's greeting  and  walked  beside  him  along  the 
strangely  hushed  and  resonant  corridor,  "  what  do  you 
think  of  this  ?" 

"  I  guess  I  have  got  my  *  call,'  sir,"  the  young  man 
answered,  in  a  tone  from  which  he  could  not  keep  back 
the  exultation  which  he  felt. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  said  the  old  man,  a  faint 
flush  rising  to  his  cheeks.  As  he  looked  into  the  flash- 
ing eyes,  he  wished  that  he  might  lay  aside  the  burden 
of  years  and  feel  the  fervid  glow  and  hot,  fierce  love  of 
peril  and  adventure  which  showed  in  the  young  face. 


244  ^  •^^^^  ^f  ^^^  Harry. 

We  are  all  bom  fighters,  with  the  clamor  of  a  thousand 
battle-fields  echoing  in  our  ears  when  the  trumpet  calls 
to  strife.  Nevertheless,  he  counseled  prudence  ;  but  the 
young  man's  lip  curled  in  scorn. 

How  war  quickens  a  people's  pulses  !  Before  another 
day  had  elapsed  the  streets  were  echoing  with  the  tread 
of  mustering  legions.  Hubert  Goodwin  did  not  believe 
it  was  to  be  a  holiday  excursion,  and  felt  that  he  must 
bid  adieu  to  his  old  life  before  he  began  a  new  one.  He 
must  write  to  his  mother  ;  wait  until  he  had  heard  from 
his  uncle  ;  say  good-bye  to  his  sweetheart,  and  conclude 
the  sale  of  his  horse.  It  would  not  require  many  days, 
but  his  heart  ached  when  he  saw  the  first  company 
rushed  on  board  the  cars  and  hurried  away  to  receive 
their  equipments  and  fly  to  the  defense  of  the  beleagured 
capital. 

Those  were  busy  days.  How  full  of  life  !  Years  were 
crowded  betwixt  sun  and  sun.  Yet  he  did  nothing. 
The  dust  gathered  on  his  books.  He  could  not  listen  to 
lectures.  He  did  not  study  ;  he  did  not  think.  He  only 
tramped  the  streets  and  felt.  Once  he  went  to  the 
Brainerd  Institute.  Delia  was  trembling,  fearful,  awed. 
They  talked  of  commonplaces  ;  wondered  if  there  would 
be  war.  He  said  nothing  of  himself,  and  she  intimated 
nothing  of  what  she  feared .  He  wrote  to  his  mother  a 
brief,  unsatisfactory  letter,  not  to  ask  her  permission, 
but  to  announce  his  determination.  He  knew  the  letter 
had  been  received,  for  a  telegram  had  come  from  his 
uncle  : 

"  Hold  on  ;  do  nothing  until  you  hear  from  me  again." 

What  did  it  mean  ?  Did  they  think  to  keep  him  until 
the  war  was  over  ?  If  it  were  to  be  so  brief  he  did  not 
care  to  go ;  but  believing  it  to  be  long,  he  was  all  the 


"  The  Call."  245 

more  anxious  to  begin  to  do  his  part.  He  had  heard  the 
*^  call  "  and  was  ready  to  answer.  He  wondered  what 
his  father  would  have  said  could  he  have  foreseen  this 
time.     He  did  not  question  what  he  would  say  if  alive. 

He  met  Sedley  one  day  upon  the  street .  The  colonel 
was  very  busy.  He  had  been  in  the  army  in  his  young 
days — was  a  graduate  of  West  Point.  He  was  hardly 
too  old  for  the  service,  but  the  demands  of  a  great  busi- 
ness prevented  him  from  going  to  the  front  at  once.  But 
he  gave  his  time  to  the  work  of  organizing — time  and 
money. 

"  1  cannot  go,"  he  said  to  Hubert  ;  **  at  least  not  yet. 
It  would  take  months  to  get  my  business  in  shape  to 
leave  it.  If  it  keeps  on,  I  shall  have  to  go,  I  suppose . 
Doctor  Neuman  tells  me  you  intend  to  enlist.  There 
will  be  no  difficulty  in  your  getting  a  commission,  I 
suppose  ?" 
;     Hubert  said  he  did  not  expect  one. 

"  But  you  ought  to  have  one.  It  is  such  men  as  you, 
young,  intelligent,  resolute,  who  ought  to  constitute  the 
subalterns  of  our  army.  You  think  you  have  not 
experience  ?  You  will  get  it  fast  enough.  The  field- 
officers  should  have  experience,  of  course — old  army 
men,  so  far  as  we  can  get  them;  but  young  men, 
enthusiastic,  clear-headed,  ambitious,  should  have  the 
companies.     That's  my  idea — no  politicians — no  drones. 

"  I  have  just  applied  for  permission  to  raise  a  cavalry 
regiment — myself  and  a  few  others — at  our  own  expense, 
you  know.  You  see,  there  is  no  cavalry  called  for — 
only  infantry  and  artillery.  It  is  all  folly.  An  army 
without  cavalry  is  blind  and  deaf.  It  cannot  help  but 
meet  defeat,  because  its  commander  knows  nothing 
about  where  he  is  going  or  what  he  has  to  meet.  I  used 
to  be  in  the  cavalry — the  dragoons,  you  know.  JeflE 
Davis  had  a  troop  in  the  same  regiment ;  that  was  before 


246  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

my  time,  though.  I've  picked  out  a  man  to  command 
it — an  old  West  Pointer  ;  best  man  in  my  class,  though 
he  hasn't  got  on  very  well — so  far  as  rank  is  concerned. 
No  chance  for  a  man  to  show  himself  in  our  army,  except 
with  the  Indians,  and  that  don't  count. 

"  How  about  our  trade  ?  Woodrow  tells  me  the  horse 
is  as  sound  as  a  nut  and  in  prime  condition.  Under 
seven,  too,  he  says,  though  I'd  swear  he  was  twelve,  at 
least.  Thinks  he'll  fill  the  bill,  too,  but  I  don't.  There 
aren't  two  horses  in  the  country  that  can  reliably  trot 
under  two  twenty-four.  The  little  mare  is  said  to  have 
beat  twenty  somewhere  out  West  last  year  ;  but  that 
was  a  scratch.  There's  talk  about  the  track  being  short, 
too.  She's  a  marvel,  anyhow,  but  she'll  never  do  it 
again.  The  war  will  spoil  sport,  of  course,  but  if  the 
bay  can  come  to  time  he's  worth  the  money,  war  or  no 
war. 

**  When  can  we  have  the  trial  ?  Any  time  ?  How'll 
to-morrow  afternoon  do — say  about  four  o'clock — if  it's 
fair  ?  All  right !  That's  settled,  then.  O,  by  the  way, 
who's  your  man  ?  Doctor  Neuman  ?  All  right  again  ; 
no  harm  in  it,  as  there  is  to  be  no  betting  in  it  and  no 
record.  By  the  way,  I'd  like  to  have  it  understood  that 
the  time  is  to  be  a  secret  ;  if  he  wins,  that  is.  If  he 
loses,  of  course  you  don't  want  it  known.  Woodrow's 
as  silent  as  the  grave.  You  might  caution  the  doctor. 
I  suppose  you'll  drive  yourself  ?" 

*'  I'd  rather  Woodrow  did,  sir." 

"  Well,  that's  satisfactory.  He'll  do  the  fair  thing. 
Nobody  ever  accused  him  of  any  crookedness.  I'll  take 
Jones  ;  he's  the  regular  *  starter,'  anyhow,  and  knows 
how  to  keep  still." 

When  Hubert  returned  to  his  room,  after  this  con- 
versation, he  found  a  dispatch  from  his  uncle  awaiting 
him  : 


"  The  Caliy  247 

"  Don't  join  elsewhere.  The  governor  will  send  you 
a  commission  as  lieutenant." 

It  was  a  complete  surprise.  A  lieutenant !  It  was 
an  honor,  a  privilege  greater  than  he  had  expected. 
He  was  glad  he  had  talked  with  Colonel  Sedley.  He 
showed  the  dispatch  to  Doctor  Neuman  as  they  drove 
out  to  the  course  next  day. 

Colonel  Sedley  was  late,  owing  to  numerous  and 
exacting  engagements.  The  president  was  full  of  the 
new  honor  that  had  been  conferred  upon  his  pupil,  and 
lost  no  time  in  mentioning  it.  The  colonel  congratu- 
lated the  young  man  heartily. 

It  was  a  warm  spring  afternoon.  Woodrow  announced 
the  track  to  be  in  fine  order.  Watches  were  compared 
as  the  big  bay  was  jogged  back  and  forth  and  finally 
given  a  breather  around  the  course.  The  little  group 
of  men  upon  the  judge's  stand  commented  upon  his 
action  and  jested  about  the  result.  A  few  spectators 
strolled  in  and  watched  the  proceedings  curiously.  A 
group  of  boys,  with  the  gamin's  instinct  for  the  unusual, 
clambered  about  the  empty  benches. 

"  When  do  you  expect  to  leave.  Lieutenant  ?"  asked 
Sedley,  to  pass  the  time  while  they  waited.  Already 
the  war  filled  all  the  intervals  of  life. 

Hubert  flushed  at  this  first  sound  of  the  new  title  on 
another's  lips,  but  answered  as  quietly  as  he  could  : 

"  As  soon  as  my  commission  arrives." 

"  That's  right.  Better  have  your  uniform  made  while 
you  wait.  It's  well  to  be  ready  for  duty  when  you 
report ;  makes  a  good  impression  on  your  superiors,  you 
know.  I  brought  a  check  so  that  our  matter  can  be 
settled  up  in  a  second,  if  the  horse  comes  under  the 
wire  in  time.  I'm  satisfied  as  to  his  age  and  soundness. 
Here  it  is,  doctor.     I  put  it  in  your  hands.     If  he  makes 


248  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

a  mile  in  two  twenty-four  you  will  give  that  check  to  the 
lieutenant  and  I  will  take  the  horse.  Here  they  come  ! 
Heavens,  what  a  stride  !" 

The  big  bay  was  coming  down  the  home-stretch  with 
an  even,  steady  stroke  which  fully  justified  the  admira- 
tion of  the  prospective  purchaser.  As  they  neared  the 
wire  Woodrow  nodded  to  the  starter,  and  just  as  the 
dark  muzzle  lapped  the  mark  Jones  shouted  "  Go !" 
Three  pairs  of  eyes  noted  the  time,  and  were  lifted  now 
and  then  to  watch  the  progress  made. 

"The  fastest  half  ever  made  without  a  break  !" said 
Jones,  as  they  passed  the  stand  again.  The  others 
stood  silent  in  admiration  and  expectancy.  The  seconds 
crept  by,  and  the  horse  entered  on  the  last  quarter. 

"  A  great  performance  !"  whispered  Sedley,  excitedly, 
to  the  starter. 

"  Pity  it  will  not  be  a  record,"  was  the  regretful  reply. 

"  Time  enough  for  that,"  said  the  buyer,  contentedly, 

Down  the  homestretch  came  Henlopen,  swifter  than 
before.  The  driver  urged  him,  but  he  did  not  break. 
Under  the  wire  he  flashed  as  if  shot  from  a  catapult. 

Three  fingers  touched  the  springs,  and  the  starter, 
pale  with  excitement,  whispered  the  time. 

"  Gentlemen,"  called  out  Woodrow  from  the  track 
below  as  he  turned  back  and  walked  beside  the  steam- 
ing horse  to  the  stand,  "  that's  the  fastest  mile  I  ever 
rode  !" 

"  And  the  fastest  anybody  ever  rode !"  said  Jones, 
excitedly. 

"  What !" 

The  veteran  driver  tossed  the  reins  to  an  attendant, 
scrambled  over  the  railing,  and  ran  up  the  steps  into 
the  stand. 

"  What  was  the  time  ?"  he  asked. 


"  The  Calir  24^ 

The  gamins  and  the  few  spectators  were  gathering 
around,  eager  to  learn  the  result. 

"  Take  care,"  whispered  Sedley,  with  a  glance  toward 
these  seekers  for  knowledge. 

The  starter  whispered  to  the  driver. 

"  What !     It  can't  be  !     Why  wasn't  it  a  record  ?" 

"  Never  mind  ;  you  shall  drive  him  when  he  beats 
it,"  Sedley  hastened  to  say. 

"  He'll  never  beat  it,  Colonel,"  said  the  old  horseman, 
sadly.  "  No  horse  ever  will.  And  nobody  would 
believe  it  if  you  told  it.  Oh,  if  it  had  only  been  a 
record !" 

"  Will  you  please  let  us  know  the  time  ?"  called  out 
one  of  a  group  of  spectators,  who  were  discussing  the 
performance  a  little  way  off. 

"  It  was  under  two  twenty-four,"  answered  Sedley 
evasively, 

"  Thank  you.  My  friend,  here,"  pointing  to  one  who 
held  a  watch  in  his  hand,  **  has  been  oflEering  to  bet  that 
it  was  under  two-ten,  but,  of  course,  we  knew  that 
could  not  be." 

"O  Lord,  if  it  had  only  been  a  record !"  moaned 
Woodrow.  "  It  would  be  worth  everything  to  be  able 
to  tell  of  that,  and  have  it  official,  you  know.  I'd 
have  it  put  on  my  tombstone — I  would  I  vow  !" 

"  I  suppose  I'm  to  give  this  to  Mr.  Goodwin,  then  ?"  said 
Doctor  Neuman,  holding  up  the  check  inquiringly. 

"  Certainly.  Haven't  you  delivered  it  yet  ?  Give  it 
to  him,  quick,  before  he  backs  out,"  said  Sedley  glee- 
fully. "  I'm  sorry  for  you.  Lieutenant,"  he  added,  as 
Hubert  took  the  bit  of  paper,  "  but  that  horse  is 
worth  double  the  money  I  paid  for  him,  this  very 
minute." 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  it,"  interrupted  Jones. 

Doctor  Neuman  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  won- 


250  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

dering-ly.  "Do  you  know,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  with 
impressive  simplicity,  "that  check  represents  more 
money  than  I  ever  earned  in  ten  years." 

Hubert  Goodwin  felt  very  rich  as  he  folded  the  check 
and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  There  was  more  conversation, 
reminiscent  and  speculative.  Other  horses  were  dis- 
cussed, and  the  career  of  the  new  marvel — what  horses 
he  would  have  to  meet  and  what  events  he  might  be 
entered  for.  The  sun  was  getting  low  when  they 
started  to  go  down  the  stairs.  It  had  been  a  very  excit- 
ing affair,  and  each  one  congratulated  himself  upon  his 
good  fortune  in  having  witnessed  the  race. 

The  attendant  who  had  been  walking  Henlopen  up 
and  down  the  track,  now  called  to  Woodrow,  The 
driver  climbed  down  from  the  stand  and  approached  the 
horse's  head,  where  the  attendant  was  standing.  The 
loiterers  had  moved  away,  and  the  little  company  fol- 
lowed slowly,  going  around  the  end  of  the  stand. 

"  Mr.  Sedley,  will  you  please  step  here  a  moment  ?" 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  anxiety  in  Woodrow's 
voice.  They  walked  quickly  down  the  track  to  where 
he  stood.  With  his  left  hand  he  lifted  up  the  great 
brown  muzzle,  while  with  the  right  one  he  drew  back 
the  inflexible  cap  of  the  left  nostril,  showing  the  red, 
glistening  membrane  within. 

**  What  is  it  ?"  asked  Sedley,  looking  down  at  the  dark 
spot  on  the  track  under  the  horse's  head. 

"  Do  you  see  that  ?"  said  Woodrow,  nodding  toward 
the  horse's  nose. 

A  little  red  stream  was  trickling  down  the  membrane 
and  through  the  stiff  short  hairs  of  the  upper  lip.  Hen- 
lopen thrust  out  his  tongue  now  and  then  to  lick  off  the 
falling  drops.  While  they  looked  he  shook  his  head  and 
coughed,  scattering  bright  fresh  blood  drops  upon  them. 


"  The   Cair  251 

**  Hemorrhage  ?"  inquired  Sedley, 

Woodrow  nodded  affirmatively. 

"  When  did  it  come  on  ?"  Sedley  asked  the  attendant. 

"Just  a  minute  ago,"  was  the  reply.  "  I  gave  him  a 
sup  of  water.     He  coughed,  and  then  I  noticed  this." 

"  Might  have  been  bleeding  for  half  an  hour,  I  sup- 
pose." 

**  No,  sir.  We  have  sponged  his  nose  and  mouth  three 
or  four  times  since  the  heat  was  over,  and  there  wasn't 
a  trace  of  blood  till  that  moment." 

**  Any  chance  for  him  ?"  to  Woodrow. 

The  trainer  shook  his  head  sadly  : 

"  It  is  red  blood,  you  observe." 

He  wiped  his  hands  upon  the  horse's  mane  as  he 
spoke. 

**  I  see — an  artery." 

Woodrow  signed  to  the  attendant  to  remove  the  sulky 
and  harness.  Hubert  placed  his  ear  at  the  horse's  chest. 
He  heard  a  curious  gurgling  sound. 

"  Poor  old  fellow  !"  he  said,  putting  his  arm  over  the 
drooping  neck  and  caressing  tenderly  the  broad  fore- 
head. The  horse  gave  a  low  neigh  of  recognition  and 
coughed  again.  Instantly  a  red  stream  burst  from  his 
nostrils.  He  raised  his  head  and  gazed  from  one  to 
another  with  an  almost  human  look  of  startled  inquiry. 
All  the  little  company,  except  Hubert,  sprang  back  to 
avoid  the  red  torrent  that  spouted  from  the  black, 
quivering  muzzle. 

"  Poor  fellow  !"  said  Hubert  again,  still  clasping  the 
neck  and  patting  the  upraised  head.  With  a  sharp 
neigh  of  alarm,  the  horse  rubbed  the  side  of  his  head 
against  the  young  man's  breast,  as  if  begging  for  aid. 
His  breath  came  chokingly.  His  mouth  opened,  and 
the  blood  gushed  from  it  also.  ^His  neighing  became 
one  choking  shriek  for  help.     He  kept  turning  toward 


252  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

his  master,  as  if  imploring  him  to  give  relief.  The  great 
brown  eyes  were  full  of  agonized  entreaty.  Hubert 
moved  backward  to  avoid  the  stream  of  blood,  still  hold- 
ing the  neck,  stroking  the  outstretched  head,  and  speak- 
ing tenderly  to  the  doomed  beast. 

His  voice  choked,  and  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes. 
The  others  wept,  too — all  but  Sedley.  He  stood  dry- 
eyed,  indeed,  but  with  his  firm  jaws  set  and  a  look  upon 
his  face  that  attested  the  emotion  which  he  felt.  Wheel- 
ing round  and  round  in  the  vain  endeavor  to  confront 
the  one  whom  he  had  learned  to  love  and  to  whom  he 
turned  instinctively  in  mute  entreaty  for  aid,  the  stream- 
ing blood  from  the  horse's  mouth  described  a  red  circle 
partly  on  the  white  graveled  track  and  partly  on  the 
fresh-springing  grass  beside  it.  He  moved  slower  and 
slower  every  moment,  while  his  neighing  sank  at  length 
to  a  faint  moan.  He  began  to  paw,  but  only  with  his 
off -foot,  as  if  even  in  death  he  remembered  not  to  harm 
the  master  he  loved.  A  shiver  went  through  his  limbs. 
His  body  swayed  back  and  forth. 

"  Look  out !"  cried  Woodrow. 

Hubert  did  not  heed  this  warning,  but  kept  his  clasp 
upon  the  quivering  neck  and  strove  to  hold  up  the 
drooping  head.  There  was  a  long,  low  moan  of  mortal 
agony  ;  the  head  was  turned  suddenly,  the  great  nostrils 
distended  ;  the  brown  eyes  looked  into  the  brimming 
ones  beside  them.  The  trembling  limbs  slowly  gave 
way  and  the  vast  hulk  sank  slowly  and  easily  to  the; 
ground.  Hubert  laid  the  brown  head  tenderly  upon  the; 
green  turf — there  was  a  sob — a  tremor  of  the  mighty- 
limbs,  and  the  great  horse  was  dead. 

Hubert  rose  and  brushed  the  blood  from  the  sleeve 
of  his  coat,  turning  shamefacedly  away  to  hide  his  tears. 
The  others  regarded  him  with  that  kindly  commisera- 


"  The  Calir  253 

tion  we  bestow  upon  those  who  stand  by  the  death-bed 
of  friends. 

"  He  was  a  good  one,"  said  Woodrow,  speaking  of  the 
dead.  It  was  the  highest  praise  the  old  trainer  could 
give. 

**  He  deserves  a  monument,"  said  Sedley,  "  and  he 
shall  have  one,  too — right  here  beside  the  track  where 
he  died." 

Hubert  answered  with  a  grateful  look.  He  could  not 
trust  his  voice.  The  great,  homely  bay  had  grown 
much  dearer  to  him  than  he  thought.  He  recalled  his 
virtues,  which  had  been  regarded  as  a  matter  of  course 
while  he  lived — his  steadiness,  kindness  and  sagacity, 
as  well  as  his  amazing  fortitude  and  determination. 

"  '  We  ne'er  shall  look  upon  his  like  again,' "  said 
Jones,  with  an  attempt  at  levity. 

"  It  is  strange,"  said  Doctor  Neuman,  solemnly.  "  He 
seemed  to  know  his  end  was  approaching  almost  as  well 
as  if  he  had  been  human." 

Hubert  walked  back  toward  the  stand  to  conceal  his 
emotion.  The  others  stood  a  moment  in  the  soft,  spring 
sunset  gazing  on  the  stifiFening  limbs  of  the  great  horse 
who  had  died  in  the  very  hour  when  he  had  outdone  all 
his  race,  but  whose  name  would  never  appear  among 
the  list  of  those  who  have  triumphed  on  the  track  which 
was  moistened  with  his  blood.  Then  they  started 
toward  the  sheds  where  their  horses  stood. 

"  Well,  Lieutenant,"  said  Sedley,  cheerfully,  as  they 
overtook  the  young  man,  who  walked  on  with  them, 
"  I'm  sorry  now  we  didn't  let  the  big  horse  make  a 
record.  It  seems  that  you  were  the  one  that  was  in 
luck,  after  all  ;  though  I  did  think  I  w^as  getting  him 
cheap.  There  are  not  many  who  win  on  such  a  narrow 
margin  as  that." 

He  gazed  keenly  at  the  young  man  as  he  spoke. 


254  ^  ^011  of  Old  Ha7'7y. 

"I  hope  you  do  not  think — "  began  Hubert,  con- 
fusedly. 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  interrupted  Sedley,  *'  He's  my 
horse  just  as  much  as  if  he  had  died  of  old  age.  He 
was  worth  the  money  when  I  bought  him,  and  more, 
too.  All  the  same,  you  are  lucky.  The  doctor  here, 
don't  believe  in  luck  ;  I  do.  It's  worth  everything  to  a 
man  in  this  world,  too.  Some  have  it  and  others  don't ; 
and  some  have  it  for  a  time  and  then  lose  it.  Some  win 
with  all  the  chances  against  them — against  their  own 
expectations  even  ;  others  will  lose  with  ninety -nine 
clear  chances  in  their  favor,  though  they  exercise  the 
utmost  prudence  and  caution.  There's  no  accounting 
for  luck  ;  and  you've  got  it,  no  mistake  about  that. 
You'd  have  been  expelled  from  the  seminary  for  your 
escapade  last  winter  if  it  hadn't  been  for  your  luck. 
Instead  of  that,  here's  the  doctor  come  with  you  to  see 
you  win  on  a  dead  horse.  He  would  have  expelled 
any  one  else  for  proposing  such  a  thing.  From  what 
he  tells  me  I  find  it  isn't  the  first  time  your  luck  has 
served  you  well.  There's  nothing  like  it,  and  there's 
no  sense  in  trying  to  give  any  reason  for  it,  I  don't 
blame  you  ;  I  just  envy  you,  I'm  probably  better  able 
to  lose  what  I  paid  than  you  the  price  of  an  ordinary 
horse,  I've  had  pretty  fair  luck  myself,  but  I  envy 
yours.  You  are  not  only  lucky,  but  every  one  believes 
in  your  luck — expects  you  to  succeed,  don't  you  see. 
Be  grateful  for  it,  young  man,  but  don't  abuse  it.  Let 
it  cover  mistakes,  but  don't  strain  it  by  advertising  for 
impossibilities.  If  you  ever  want  a  partner — especially 
in  anything  connected  with  a  horse — just  let  me  know. 
I'd  stake  a  good  deal  on  your  judgment,  and  a  lot  more 
on  your  luck.  Good-bye.  I  expect  to  see  you  come  out 
of  the  war  with  a  star  on  your  shoulder,  It's  a  great 
chance  for  a  man  with  your  luck," 


"  The  Calir  255 

"  Mr.  Sedley — I — I  wish  you  would  take  this  back," 
said  Hubert,  taking  the  check  from  his  pocket. 

"  Young  man,"  responded  the  sturdy  capitaHst,  with 
some  show  of  anger,  "  don't  be  foolish.  More  people 
spoil  their  luck  in  that  way  than  in  any  other.  Take 
what  belongs  to  you  without  stopping  to  consider 
whether  the  man  who  loses  is  sorry  he  risked  or  not.  If 
the  horse  had  lived,  I  should  have  doubled  my  money 
and  not  given  a  thought  to  the  chance  you  lost.  The 
money  is  yours  ;  do  what  you  choose  with  it,  but  don't 
think  of  returning  it  to  me.  That  is  not  only  folly,  it  is 
almost  an  insult.  There  is  one  thing  you  can  do  to 
oblige  me  :  keep  the  matter  still  for  the  present — the 
time  he  made,  I  mean.  I  don't  care  to  have  people 
pitying  me.     Come  on,  Jones." 

The  colonel  strode  stiffly  away  without  further  adieu. 

It  was  a  very  silent  ride  back  over  the  paved  streets  in 
the  echoing  twilight,  to  Doctor  Neuman  and  his  pupil. 
The  day's  experience  had  been  a  rare  one  to  the  good 
divine.  He  had  seen  a  side  of  life  with  which  he  had 
no  little  sympathy,  but  at  which  he  could  not  but 
wonder.  He  was  not  only  fond  of  a  good  horse,  but  he 
liked  also  brave,  adventurous  men — men  who  could  win 
or  lose  with  equanimity.  He  had  always  wanted  to  see 
a  race,  but  regard  for  his  profession  had  kept  him 
away  from  the  track  ;  and  now  he  had  witnessed  an 
event  sure  to  be  among  the  most  memorable  in  the 
annals  of  the  turf,  though  it  would  be  but  a  tradition — 
a  tradition  like  that  of  Flying  Childer's  yet  unrivaled 
achievement.  Only  half  a  dozen  pairs  of  eyes,  it  is  said, 
watched  that  marvel  of  equine  tradition.  One  of  them, 
he  had  read  somewhere,  belonged  to  a  dignitary  of  the 
church.  For  a  hundred  years  nobody  doubted  the 
great  racer's  achievement,  or,  at  least,  dared  express  a 


256  A   Son  of  Old  Harjy. 

doubt.  Since  then  nobody  has  believed  it.  Would 
it  be  the  same  with  the  marvel  he  had  witnessed  ? 

He  had  been  taught  that  day  to  use  a  stop-watch. 
He  had  held  one  of  the  three  by  which  the  time  was 
marked.  They  all  agreed  within  a  fraction  of  a  second. 
He  had  held  his  up  for  examination  by  the  others 
before  reading  the  result  himself.  He  had  seen  both 
the  others.  Had  his  eyes  deceived  him,  and  his  hand 
also  ?  He  was  glad  he  had  witnessed  the  trial,  and  glad, 
also,  that  the  result  was  to  be  kept  secret.  His  con- 
science was  easy,  too.  There  had  been  no  betting  ;  not 
a  cent  had  been  staked  on  the  result.  Yet  the  young 
man  beside  him  had  been,  if  not  exactly  poor,  at  the 
least  not  rich  when  they  went  out  ;  now  he  had  a 
fortune  in  his  pocket.  Was  this  quite  a  true  statement  of 
the  case  ?  When  they  went  out,  the  young  man  was 
the  owner  of  the  most  valuable  horse  in  the  world  ;  the 
check  in  his  pocket  was  not  more  than  half  as  much  as 
the  best  judges  declared  the  horse  to  be  worth.  He 
had  not  made  a  very  good  sale,  after  all,  though  the 
buyer  had  nothing  to  show  for  his  money.  The  good 
doctor  mentioned  this  view  of  the  matter  to  the  young 
man  beside  him,  who  answered  with  a  curious  incred- 
ulity of  tone  which  set  the  elder  man  to  wondering 
what  his  future  would  be  like — what  he  would  do  with 
the  money  he  had  received  or  what  it  would  do  with 
him. 

"^Will  you  let  me  come  into  the  library  a  moment, 
doctor  ?"  Hubert  asked,  as  they  stopped  before  the 
gate. 

"  Certainly.  Will  you  not  stay  to  supper  with  us  ? 
It  must  be  ready  now." 

"  Thank  you  ;  I  don't  think  I  can — to-night,  I  will 
only  detain  you  a  moment." 

He  fastened  the  horse  and  they  walked  up  the  path 


"  The  Calir  257 

together,  the  elder  wondering  at  the  younger  man's 
request.  Ushering  him  into  the  library,  he  renewed 
his  invitation  ;  but  the  other  persisted  in  declining  it. 
Asking  permission,  he  seated  himself  at  the  writing- 
table,  dropping  his  hat  upon  the  floor  beside  him,  and 
taking  the  check  from  his  pocket,  he  indorsed  it  to  the 
other's  order. 

"  Please  use  it  to  help  equip  the  regiment  Sedley  is 
raising,"  he  said,  raising  and  handing  it  to  the  other. 

The  doctor  put  on  his  glasses,  and  read  the  indorse- 
ment. 

"But — ^had  you  not  better  wait  and — think  this 
over .?" 

The  young  man  smiled. 

The  doctor  knew  it  was  useless  to  give  advice,  but 
could  not  help  saying  : 

**  This  is  a  great  deal ;  you  are  not  rich.  Can  you 
afford  to  give  so  much  for — for  such  a  purpose  ?" 

"  But,  doctor,  I  have  already  offered  my  life  for  the 
cause  it  will  aid." 

"  True,  true,  my  son,"  answered  the  old  man.  "  May 
God  bless  you  and  your  gift." 

He  raised  his  eyes  as  he  spoke.  The  young  man 
looked  down  and  twirled  his  hat  in  an  embarrassed  way. 
Then  he  stretched  out  his  hand. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said. 

"  We  shall  see  you  again  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  not ;  I  expect  to  go  to-morrow." 

"  So  soon  ?  Write  me  when  you  can,  I  have  no 
doubt  I  shall  hear  of  your  success  without  it,  but  shall 
be  glad  to  receive  your  own  report.     Good-bye." 

When  he  was  gone,  the  doctor  spread  out  the  check 
and  read  it  again  before  putting  it  in  his  pocket. 

"Come,"  said  his  wife,  from  the  door,  "  you  know  you 
are  expected  at  the  meeting  to-night." 


258  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

"  Meeting  ?    What  meeting  ?" 

"  Why,  about  the  regiment  Colonel  Sedley  is  raising." 

"  Ah,  yes  ;  I  had  forgotten." 

The  wife  smiled.  She  had  been  her  husband's  calen- 
dar for  years,  and  was  not  surprised  at  his  absent- 
mindedness  during  the  meal  which  followed. 


"  So  Henlopen  will  never  make  a  record,"  was 
Hubert  Goodwin's  regretful  comment,  as  he  told  the 
story  of  the  day's  happenings  to  Delia  Kincaid  that 
night,  and  informed  her  of  the  disposition  he  had  made 
of  the  check. 

"  And  you  gave  all  that  money — to — to — " 

"  The  country,"  he  interrupted,  laughingly.  "  Why 
not  ?  I  may  have  to  give — a  great  deal  more,  you 
know." 

The  girl  shuddered  and  her  cheeks  grew  pale. 

"  Don't  you  think  this  is  enough — as  much  as  you 
ought  to  do  ?" 

"  Why,  Dee  !     You  wouldn't  have  me  stay  at  home  ?" 

"Oh,  Jack,  if  you  only  would!  Please  do!  Let  us 
go  away — let's  go  abroad,  where  we  will  know  nothing 
of  this  dreadful  war.  We  might  be  married  and  go  to- 
morrow. I  will  give  up  the  school — anything — if  you 
will.  O,  Jack  !  I  know  I  shall  lose  you  !  There  will 
never  be  any  happiness  for  me  in  the  world  if  you  go. 
You  know  you  promised  me,  Jack,  *  Forever  and  ever. 
Amen  !'  And  now  you  are  going  away  to  be  shot — to 
be  killed  !  You  are  breaking  your  promise  !  You  do 
not  love  me — if  you  go  !" 

**  Forever  and  ever.  Amen  !"  What  visions  the  words 
recalled.  All  his  life  he  had  loved  this  girl — this 
woman — who  now  would  persuade  him  to  turn  back 


"  The  Caliy  259 

from  his  duty — to  be  deaf  to  the  "  call "  he  had 
received.  "  Forever  and  ever,  Amen  !"  The  sun  shone 
through  the  sheltering  leaves,  and  the  sounds  of  the 
summer  woods  were  about  him  again.  He  heard  the 
droning  of  the  wasps,  and  saw  again  their  nests  of  tem- 
pered mortar  beside  the  rafters  in  the  old  home  which 
was  then  new.  And  now  she  offered  him  her  beauty  as 
the  price  for  his  manhood  !     His  brain  reeled. 

"  But,  Dee — "  he  exclaimed,  confusedly,  entreatingly. 

She  broke  in  passionately,  angrily,  on  his  remon- 
strance : 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  !  What  do  I  care  for  the  country  ? 
I  want  you.  And  you  promised  me  ;  you  know  you  did, 
I  know  I  am  not  brave.  I  am  tired  and  sick.  I  want 
to  go  away — to  Italy — Switzerland — Venice  !  O,  Jack, 
why  can't  we  go  to  Venice  and  dream  away  the  days  of 
strife  ?  Everybody  is  not  called  upon  to  fight,  and  you 
have  done  enough.  They  can  get  a  hundred  men  with 
what  you  have  given." 

"  I  suppose  they  might — "  thoughtfully. 

"  Of  course  they  can — and  we  !" 

She  nestled  close  to  him  with  rapturous  suggestion. 

"  But  every  one  would  call  me  a  coward — " 

"  Suppose  they  should  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  I  could  stand  that,  Dee." 

"  But  it  wouldn't  be  you — not  your  wish,  that  is,  but 
mine.  You  could  tell  them  I  was  sick.  And  I  am  sick, 
Jack — oh,  so  sick  !     You  don't  know  how  sick  !" 

She  cast  herself  upon  his  breast  weeping  passionately. 
He  smoothed  her  silken  curls  with  a  loving  hand,  and 
soothed  her,  hardly  knowing  what  he  did.  At  length 
his  face  lightened. 

"  Dee,"  he  exclaimed,  eagerly,  "I  think  you  are  sick  ; 
you  have  been  studying  too  hard.  Why  not  get 
married,  anyhow  ?" 


26o  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

"  And  then  ?"     She  did  not  raise  her  head, 

"  You  can  go  with  me  ;  officers  often  take  their  wives. 
It  will  probably  be  a  good  while  before  there  is  any 
fighting — before  they  are  ready  to  fight,  I  mean." 

**  No  !  No  !  No  !"  She  shook  her  head  and  shud- 
dered. "  I  can't  do  it !  I  can't  do  it  !  I  can't  tell  you 
why,  either.  Only  go  away — leave  the  country — and  I 
will  go  with  you  to-morrow — to-night — this  very 
minute !" 

She  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  him  with  almost 
frantic  appall. 

*■'  And  Jack,"  she  continued,  "  if  you  do  not,  you  will 
lose  me — we  shall  lose  each  other — forever  and  ever  !" 

**  You  would  not  forget  me,  Dee  ?" 

"  I  shall  love  you  always.  Jack,  always — but — but  if 
you  do  not  consent — oh,  I  cannot  tell  you  !  We  shall 
never  be  happy  again." 

"  Poor  little  girl,"  he  said,  soothingly  ;  "  you  are  tired 
to-night.     It  will  seem  different  to-morrow." 

She  shook  her  head,  hopelessly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  will  ;  you  are  nervous  and  worn-out 
to-night.  I  shall  tell  Miss  Brainerd  you  need  a  rest, 
and  take  you  home  with  me." 

"  Home  !"  with  a  start.    "  When  are  you  going  there  ?" 

"O,  in  a  day  or  two." 

"  And  you  will  not  go  away — with  me  .?" 

"  Abroad,  do  you  mean  ?" 

She  nodded. 

"  I  will — think  about  it.     There's  the  bell ;  I  must  go." 

The  bell  of  the  Brainerd  Institute  rang  at  nine  o'clock 
for  the  departure  of  guests,  if  any  chanced  to  be  within 
its  portals  at  that  hour.  They  were  sitting  in  the  private 
parlor  of  the  principal — a  privilege  accorded  to  but  few. 
They  knew  that  lady  would  enter  soon.    Delia  started 


"  The  Callr  261 

up,  hastily  smoothing  her  hair.    Her  lover  caught  her 
in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  passionately 

"  You  will  go  ?  "  she  entreated, 

"  O — do  not  ask  me.  I  cannot  promise — ^just  now — at 
least." 

"  Then — good-bye  !" 

She  stood  on  tiptoe,  her  pale,  agonized  face  upturned 
for  his  kisses. 

"  O,  Jack — dear  Jack  !  Remember,  whatever  happens 
— I  shall  love  you  *  forever  and  ever  !'  " 

There  was  a  knock  upon  the  door. 

"I  am  very  sorry  to  disturb  you,  young  people,"  said 
the  kindly-faced  principal,  "but  the  bell  has  rung. 
Why,  what  does  this  mean  ?"  as  the  young  girl  threw 
herself  upon  her  teacher's  breast,  weeping  hysterically. 
**  No  lover's  quarrel,  I  hope  ?" 

"  She  dreads  to  have  me  go — into  the  service — you 
know,"answered  Hubert,  stammeringly. 

"  Poor  girl !"  said  the  lady,  tenderly  patting  her  pupil's 
head.  '*  That  is  part  of  our  woman's  lot — to  lose  those 
we  love." 

-  There  was  a  far-away  look  in  her  eyes  as  she  spoke, 
Hubert  bowed  himself  out,  and  went  back  to  his  lodg- 
ing with  a  burdened  heart.  He  found  the  uniform  he 
had  ordered  awaiting  him  and  tried  it  on.  The  new  life 
it  represented  quickly  chased  away  the  memory  of  love's 
tears. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


OLD    HARRY  S    LUCK. 


The  newspapers  of  the  day  succeeding  Henl open's 
death  contained  a  curious  account  of  that  eve  at.  The 
world  of  sport  was  not  what  it  is  now,  nor  was  the  reporter 
so  absolutely  ubiquitous.  Not  only  this,  but  one  great 
central  thought  then  occupied  the  public  mind,  and 
other  events  had  a  singular  fictitious  value  according  to 
their  relation  to  it.  The  most  remote  connection  with 
the  conflict  which  was  then  impending,  rather  than 
actually  begun,  lifted  the  most  trivial  matters  in  th^ 
realm  of  news  to  a  plane  of  prime  importance  as  com- 
pared with  matters  having  no  relation  to  it.  Wrecks, 
accidents,  the  death  of  sovereigns,  the  opening  of  new 
gold  fields,  even  scandal  fell  to  a  second  place  in  public 
estimation  in  comparison  with  things  relating  to  the 
progress  of  the  war.  It  is  not  strange  that  the  death  of 
Henlopen,  an  event  which  would  now  command  univer- 
sal attention,  was  then  regarded  as  worthy  of  mention 
chiefly  because  of  the  circumstances  connected  with 
it.  These,  however,  gave  it  a  place  on  the  editorial 
page,  where  it  appeared  the  next  morning,  under  the 
title  of 


Old  Harry's  Luck.  263 


"A  MANLY  ACT  PROMPTLY  REWARDED. 

**  We  noted  in  our  issue  of  yesterday  that  one  of  the 
students  of  the  Theological  Seminary  had  been  com- 
missioned a  lieutenant.  To-day,  it  is  our  privilege  to 
record  an  act  of  chivalrous  generosity  on  the  part  of 
Lieutenant  Goodwin,  which  shows  that  the  governor  of 
his  native  State  made  no  mistake  in  conferring  upon 
him  that  honor.  He  is  known  to  many  of  our  citi- 
zens as  having  been  the  owner  of  the  trotting-horse, 
Henlopen,  which  played  such  havoc  among  the  crack 
turnouts  on  the  Bay  Road  last  winter.  At  that  time  an 
offer  of  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  was  made  for  the 
horse  by  Colonel  Sedley,  on  condition  that  he  should 
beat  two  twenty-four.  This  was  accepted,  and  the  big 
horse  has  been  in  training  with  Woodrow  ever  since  for 
his  match  against  time.  It  came  off  yesterday  on  the 
Park  Course.  It  was  a  private  affair,  only  half  a  dozen 
friends  being  present,  and  they  were  sworn  to  secrecy. 
The  price  is  said  to  be  the  largest,  with  one  exception, 
perhaps,  ever  offered  for  a  horse  in  the  United  States  ; 
yet  it  is  generally  admitted  that  if  able  to  make  the  time 
required,  the  big  bay  was  well  worth  it.  Woodrow  held 
the  reins,  and  expressed  the  opinion  that  the  horse 
could  do  all  that  was  asked  of  him,  and  more  too. 

"  It  was  nearly  five  o'clock  when  he  got  the  word,  and 
those  present  witnessed  a  performance  they  will  not 
soon  forget.  The  mile  was  trotted  without  a  break. 
The  exact  time  cannot  be  given,  but  it  is  ascertained 
that  it  was  several  seconds  less  than  has  ever  been 
done  before  or  than  most  horsemen  supposed  possible. 
The  horse  finished  the  heat  in  prime  condition,  and  Mr. 
Sedley  handed  over  the  check  for  the  amount  agreed  on 
with  the  utmost  cheerfulness. 

"  Shortly  afterward,  as  the  party  were  leaving  the 


264  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

grounds,  they  were  called  back  to  witness  the  death  of 
the  noble  animal  which  had  just  won  such  distinguished 
honor.  While  being  walked  about  to  cool  off,  he  was 
startled  by  a  dog  which  attempted  to  run  across  the 
track,  and  took  three  or  four  of  his  enormous  strides 
before  the  driver  could  bring  him  down.  A  moment 
afterward,  it  was  found  that  he  had  burst  a  blood -vessel, 
and  in  a  short  time  he  was  dead. 

"  No  doubt  Colonel  Sedley  felt  some  chagrin  at 
having  only  a  dead  horse  to  show  for  his  money,  but 
those  who  know  him  do  not  need  to  be  told  that  he 
evinced  none.  It  was  an  ordinary  business  risk,  and 
he  had  lost ;  that  is  the  way  he  looked  at  it.  Lieutenant 
Goodwin,  however,  refused  to  retain  the  price  paid  for 
the  horse,  and  handed  the  check  to  President  Neuman 
with  a  request  that  the  money  be  applied  to  the  equip- 
ment of  the  regiment  of  cavalry  which  Colonel  Sedley 
proposes  to  raise.  The  colonel  received  it  on  his  way 
to  the  meeting  reported  elsewhere,  to  consider  whether 
our  citizens  should  not  join  with  him  in  tendering  the 
government  a  regiment  of  cavalry,  armed,  uniformed 
and  mounted  ready  for  the  field. 

'*  Colonel  Sedley  repeated  at  this  meeting  his  propo- 
sition to  give  $100,000  for  the  purpose  indicated.  He 
understood,  he  said,  that  the  government  had  a  suffi- 
cient supply  of  sabers  of  good  quality,  and  he  believed 
the  sum  named  would  furnish  the  uniforms  and  com- 
plete the  equipment  of  the  men.  He  thought  it  would 
require  $200,000  more  to  provide  the  mount  and  general 
equipment.  As  a  first  subscription  toward  this,  he  had 
received,  he  said,  the  sum  of  $25,000  from  a  young  man 
who  probably  had  not  as  much  more  in  the  world  ;  per- 
haps not  half  as  much  ;  and  who,  in  addition  to  this,  had 
already  offered  his  services,  and  was  ready  to  give  his 


Old  Harry^s  Luck,  265 

life,  if  need  be,  for  his  country — Lieutenant  Hubert 
Goodwin,  of  the  Theological  Seminary. 

"After  the  applause  which  greeted  this  announce- 
ment had  died  away,  he  stated  in  response  to  calls  for 
Goodwin,  that  the  lieutenant  was  not  present  and  knew 
nothing  of  what  was  taking  place.  He  had  sent  a  check 
for  the  sum  named,  by  Doctor  Neuman,  whom  he  had 
authorized  to  apply  it  in  this  manner.  He  was,  prob- 
ably, at  that  moment  making  preparations  to  leave  the 
city,  to  join  his  regiment. 

"  This  statement  aroused  the  wildest  enthusiasm.  It 
was  immediately  voted  to  raise  the  sum  required,  and 
subscriptions  for  the  full  amount,  with  pledges  for  as 
much  more,  if  necessary,  were  made  in  a  few  minutes. 
Colonel  Sedley  stated  that  a  distinguished  officer  of  the 
regular  Army  had  signified  a  willingness  to  accept  the 
command  of  the  regiment,  and  moved  that  the  meeting 
request  the  President  to  detail  him  for  that  duty. 

"  When  this  had  been  adopted,  the  venerable  Doctor 
Neuman  arose,  and  in  a  speech  of  unusual  eloquence 
told  the  story  of  young  Goodwin's  life,  and  moved  that 
the  President  be  requested  to  appoint  him  the  lieuten- 
ant-colonel of  the  regiment.  The  proposition  took  like 
wildfire,  and  Doctor  Neuman 's  speech  was  punctuated 
with  applause.  It  seems  that  the  young  man  has  not 
only  fighting  blood  in  his  veins,  but,  so  to  speak,  cav- 
alry blood,  also.  A  distinguished  cavalry  officer  of 
Cromwell's  army  and  a  captain  of  dragoons  who  fell  at 
Trenton,  were  among  his  ancestors,  and  the  doctor  pre- 
dicted for  him  a  biilliant  future. 

"  Colonel  Sedley  seconded  the  motion  in  the  most 
earnest  and  emphatic  terms.  As  one  having  some 
knowledge  of  the  requirements  of  the  office,  he  did 
not  hesitate  to  indorse  the  doctor's  prediction. 

"One  of  Goodwin's  classmates  pledged  himself  to 


266  A  So7i  of  Old  Harry 

raise  a  company  and  go  with  them  himself,  if  Goodwin 
received  the  appointment.  There  was  no  dissent,  and 
the  proposition  was  carried  with  a  rush.  Colonel  Sedley 
was  directed  to  telegraph  the  President  requesting 
immediate  action  in  the  matter.  It  was  proposed  to 
call  the  regiment  the  '  Sedley  Legion,'  and,  despite  the 
colonel's  demurrer,  the  suggestion  was  unanimously 
adopted,  and  we  have  no  doubt  the  corps  will  be  an 
honor  to  the  city  and  the  State,  as  well  as  to  the  patri- 
otic citizen  whose  name  it  bears.  Only  the  best  men 
will  be  accepted,  and  service  in  its  ranks  will  be  an 
honor  any  man  might  covet. 

"  After  the  adjournment,  it  was  proposed  to  serenade 
the  young  colonel.  The  crowd  formed  in  line  and 
marched  to  the  seminary  building,  the  band  leading 
the  way.  The  young  man  had  just  donned  his  lieuten- 
ant's uniform,  and  his  astonishment  as  he  listened  to 
Colonel  Sedley  *s  statement  of  what  had  occurred  showed 
how  little  he  had  expected  any  such  recognition  of  his 
generous  act  He  was  hustled  down  to  make  his 
acknowledgment  to  the  crowd,  which  he  did,  or  rather 
tried  to  do.  If  his  words  were  somewhat  incoherent, 
the  applause  was  vociferous.  He  is  not  a  man  of  strik- 
ing appearance,  but  there  was  something  in  his 
demeanor,  as  he  shook  hands  with  this  clamorous  com- 
pany of  new-found  friends,  which  satisfied  every  one 
that  no  mistake  had  been  made  in  selecting  him  for 
such  a  responsible  position.  The  Sedley  Legion  are 
sure  to  be  proud  of  the  second  in  command  before  the 
war  is  over.  It  is  expected  that  Colonel  Craft  will 
report  for  duty  in  about  a  week.  In  the  meantime, 
recruiting  will  proceed  under  charge  of  Colonel  Goodwin 
at  the  Sedley  Block,  the  large  hall  of  which  will  be 
used  for  drilling." 


Old  Harry'' s  Luck.  267 

It  is  strange  how  things  were  done  in  that  first  fever 
heat  of  war  !  The  next  day  was  a  wild  one  for  Hubert 
Goodwin  ;  so  were  those  that  followed.  He  was  no 
longer  his  own  master,  but  the  slave  of  his  good  for- 
tune— the  servant  of  the  regiment.  It  was  not  that 
he  had  so  much  to  do  ;  Sedley  and  his  committee,  with 
a  hundred  other  willing  helpers,  did  much  of  the  work  ; 
but  he  had  to  seem  to  direct,  to  approve,  to  encourage 
to  suggest.  It  was  a  strange  task  for  one  so  inexperi- 
enced. Fortunately,  he  had  Sedley  at  his  elbow,  more 
fortunately  still,  others  were  as  inexperienced  as  him- 
self. A  uniform  went  for  a  great  deal ;  a  title  was 
a  badge  of  authority  then.  Courtesy  in  hearing  and 
promptness  in  deciding  were  the  chief  qualities  that 
were  necessary  in  his  new  field  of  duty,  and  these  he  had. 

He  learned  afterward  that  if  he  had  been  a  trained 
soldier  he  probably  would  not  have  succeeded  as  well  as 
he  did  in  his  new  role.  He  would  not  then  have  dared 
attempt  what  he  did  not  now  hesitate  to  undertake.  The 
new  uniform,  no  longer  suitable  to  his  rank,  did  service 
with  its  one  row  of  buttons  just  as  well  as  if  there  had 
been  two.  He  worked  night  and  day,  and  at  high  pres- 
sure all  the  time.  Everybody  wondered  at  his  success. 
He  wondered  himself  more  than  any  one  else.  He  knew 
that  the  days  seemed  years,  but  he  felt  that  the  "  call " 
for  which  he  had  been  waiting  had  come — he  had  found 
what  there  was  for  him  to  do. 

Saturday  came,  and  with  it  the  colonel  ;  a  sturdy, 
chestnut-bearded  man,  beginning  to  show  gray  threads 
among  his  close-cropped  hair.  Hubert  was  ready  to 
report.  Seven  troops  were  complete,  the  others  nearly 
so  ;  the  ranks  of  the  Legion  would  be  full  before  Mon- 
day night.  Sedley  reported  that  he  would  have  the 
camp  ready  by  Wednesday.  It  was  to  be  on  the  race- 
course where  Henlopen  was  buried. 


268  A  So7i  of  Old  Harry. 

The  colonel  commended  what  had  been  done.  He 
wondered,  indeed,  that  so  much  had  been  accomplished 
in  so  short  a  time.  It  is  not  strange.  The  civilian 
always  excels  the  soldier  in  the  preliminary  work  of 
organization  ;  he  is  not  hampered  by  habitual  fear  of 
disapproval.  But  the  time  was  ripe  for  the  military 
mind  to  assume  control.  There  were  men  enough  ;  they 
must  be  transformed  into  soldiers.  Drill,  discipline, 
subordination,  confidence  in  things  unseen,  these  things 
must  be  taught  the  ardent  recruits.  The  colonel's 
eyes  flashed  with  pleasant  anticipation  as  he  contem- 
plated the  task.  H*e'  had  hardly  expected  ever  to 
hold  so  important  a  command.  A  regiment  of  cavalry  ! 
It  had  been  the  dream  of  his  life  !  He  would  make  it 
the  best  in  the  service.  Sedley  promised  that  he  would 
attend  to  the  equipment,  and  Hubert  rejoiced  at  an 
opportunity  to  learn  the  duties  of  his  new  station  under 
one  of  the  brightest  examples  the  time  afforded.  It  was 
with  a  sigh  of  relief  that  he  laid  aside  the  responsibility 
of  command  and  assumed  the  station  of  a  subordinate. 

Relieved  of  the  burdens  which  had  been  so  suddenly 
cast  upon  him,  Hubert  Goodwin  returned  to  his  old 
room  in  the  seminary  building  to  take  a  final  leave  of 
his  old  life.  He  had  not  visited  it  for  a  whole  week.  It 
seemed  as  if  a  lifetime  had  elapsed  since  he  crossed  its 
threshold.  How  shrunken  and  unfamiliar  it  looked — as 
if  he  had  gone  back  into  some  other  state  of  existence  ! 
A  heap  of  letters  lay  upon  the  table.  He  smiled  as  he 
thought  of  the  contrast  with  the  formidable  official  mis- 
sives to  which  he  had  become  accustomed  during  those 
eventful  days.  It  was  curious  that  what  he  had  done 
appeared  as  nothing  to  him  now,  yet  a  week  before  it 
would  have  seemed  impossible.  He  did  not  feel  tired 
exactly  ;  he  felt  old.     He  was  a  new  man  ;  the  one  who 


Old  Harry's  Luck.  269 

had  occupied  that  room  a  week  before  was  dead — ^buried 
under  a  new  life. 

He  had  not  forgotten  the  old  life,  however.  Every 
day  he  had  sent  a  brief  note  to  Delia,  telling  how  hurried 
he  was,  and  promising  to  come  and  see  her  on  Saturday. 
And  now  Saturday  was  here,  and  he  suddenly  remem- 
bered that  he  had  neither  seen  her  nor  heard  anything 
from  her.  What  did  it  mean  ?  Many  ladies  had  called 
at  the  headquarters.  Even  Kitty  Parker  had  come  ta 
congratulate  him  on  his  new  title,  and  condole  with  him 
on  the  sad  fate  of  Henlopen.  It  was  strange  she  had 
not  written.  He  had  not  thought  she  would  carry  her 
opposition  to  his  enlistment  to  such  lengths.  He  would 
soon  cure  her  of  that,  he  said  to  himself  with  quiet  confi- 
dence. Perhaps — he  caught  his  breath,  and  a  flush  of 
rapture  lighted  up  his  face  as  the  thought  flashed  through 
his  mind — perhaps  he  might  even  persuade  her  to  re- 
deem her  oft-repeated  pledge  and  become  his  "  forever 
and  ever  "  before  he  marched  away  into  the  vortex  of  war. 

How  sweet  the  quaint  words  of  the  child-betrothal 
seemed  as  his  lips  whispered  them  !  He  was  sure  she 
would  see  that  they  need  not  wait  longer  ;  that  she 
ought  to  be  his  wife  before  he  went  out  to  battle. 
Why  not  go  home  and  be  married  at  once  ?  He  could 
get  a  week,  perhaps  two.  It  would  be  a  short  honey- 
moon, but  at  such  times  love  must  stand  in  abeyance. 
Duty  is  the  soldier's  watchword,  and  he  was  a  soldier. 
He  felt  that  the  transition  was  complete.  The  red 
spur  on  his  heel  burned  hotly,  but  its  glow  gave  him  only 
pleasure.  He  was  a  son  of  Old  Harry  now  ;  and  Theo- 
philus  ?     Pshaw  !     What  did  he  caie  for  doom  or  dole  ? 

He  picked  up  the  letters.  The  first  was  directed  in 
his  uncle's  hand.  He  laid  the  others  down,  and  opened 
it  with  a  smile.  A  flush  of  pleasure  came  to  his  face  as 
he   read  the  hearty  congratulations,    and    the    smile 


270  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

deepened  as  he  found  that  his  future  was  to  be  linked 
with  another  horse — one  of  proud  enough  descent  to  be 
worthy  of  his  high  destiny.  He  wondered  if  the  glare 
of  battle  would  bring  him  closer  still  to  that  noble  beast 
with  whom  his  fate  seemed  to  be  irrevocably  linked. 

"It's  a  pity  about  the  big  bay,"  wrote  Horace  Good- 
win, "  I  always  knew  he  was  a  good  one,  though  I  can't 
quite  believe  he  did  a  mile  in  the  time  you  mention. 
You  did  just  right  about  the  money,  and  deserve  the 
luck  it  brought — every  bit  of  it.  Come  and  see  us 
before  you  go.  Your  mother  is  dying  to  show  you  off, 
and  we  are  all  very  proud  of  you.  I  am  sorry  your 
regiment  is  not  from  this  State,  but,  of  course,  you 
couldn't  miss  such  a  chance  as  that.  I  am  very  busy 
helping  raise  and  equip  troops.  If  it  was  not  for  your 
mother  and  the  babies  I  should  have  to  go,  too.  I  know 
how  you  feel,  for  the  old  mark  bums  like  fire  every 
time  I  think  of  it. 

"Now  that  you  are  going  in  the  cavalry,  you  will 
want  a  horse  that  will  be  a  credit  to  the  regiment,  and 
I  have  decided  to  let  you  have  Damon,  out  of  Queen, 
by  Gray  Eagle — five  years  old,  with  all  the  good  qual- 
ities of  both  stocks.  You  can  hardly  imagine  how  he 
has  come  out  since  you  saw  him.  You  know  he  has  the 
lofty  crest  and  proud  carriage  of  the  Eagle,  with  the 
soft,  seal-brown  coat  and  silver  mane  and  tail  of  old 
Diomed.  He  has  even  that  curious  mark  that  comes 
out  now  and  then  on  one  of  that  grand  old  horse's  pro- 
geny, and  never  yet  seen  where  his  blood  was  absent — 
a  white  spot  as  big  as  a  dime,  an  inch  above  the  crown 
of  the  right  hoof.  He  is  the  very  ideal  of  an  officer's 
horse — proud,  bold,  full  of  fire  and  determination,  and 
as  tough  as  a  whip-cord.  If  you  go  to  Virginia,  you  will 
probably  find  a  good  many  who  will  recognize  him  as  a 


Old  Harry  s  Luck.  271 

descendant  of  one  of  the  proudest  sires  of  the  Old 
Dominion.  If  he  has  any  fault  of  form,  it  is  that  he  is 
a  little  too  long  bodied — if  that  is  a  fault.  I  am  inclined 
to  think  it  an  excellence.  He  gets  it  through  the  Bel- 
mont Mare — all  her  descendants  have  it.  You  won't 
find  anything  that  will  outshine  or  outstep  or  outlast 
him,  though,  North  or  South.  That's  my  notion  at 
least. 

"  Susan  and  I  had  planned  to  make  Delia  a  present 
of  the  colt  on  her  wedding  day — he  is  so  fine  under 
the  saddle,  you  know — but  we  feel  sure  she  would  not 
want  him,  under  the  circumstances.  Poor  girl !  How 
does  she  bear  her  trouble  ?  It  must  be  terrible  to  one 
so  high-spirited.  Everybody  had  a  sort  of  distrust  of 
Kincaid,  but  no  one  thought  he  was  such  a  rascal.  It 
would  probably  never  have  come  out  if  it  had  not  been 
for  that  whelp,  Marvin.  It  seems  he  has  been  bleeding 
Kincaid  for  years  on  account  of  some  connection  with 
that  old  gang  of  horse-thieves.  Marsh  got  tired  of  pay- 
ing, and  the  scamp  threatened  to  blow  on  him — did 
begin  to  let  out  hints  of  what  he  could  tell — and  the  first 
thing  anybody  knew,  Kincaid  was  gone.  He  left  a 
power  of  attorney  with  Kendall,  to  sell  everything  and 
send  him  the  money.  His  wife  followed  him  two  or  three 
days  afterward.  I  don't  think  he  had  done  anything 
very  bad — probably  getting  me  shot  was  the  worst — and, 
if  he  had,  it  was  outlawed  ;  but  he  has  been  getting  proud 
and  trying  to  be  respectable  of  late  years,  and  was  so 
fond  of  Deely  that  he  couldn't  stand  it  to  meet  disgrace. 
So  he  broke  and  run.  I'm  inclined  to  think  it  the  best 
thing  he  could  do.  I  don't  suppose  Dee  will  want  to 
come  back  here  now — though  everybody  would  be  just 
as  kind  to  her  as  ever  ;  but  if  you  don't  marry  her  and 
keep  her  with  you  until  you  are  ordered  to  the  front, 
you're  not  the  man  I  take  you  to  be.    After  that,  if  she 


272  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

will  come  and  stay  with  us  while  you  are  gone,  we  will 
g^ve  her  just  as  warm  a  place  as  there  is  in  our  hearts. 

"  Some  pretend  to  think  that  Marsh  has  gone  South, 
but  I  don't  believe  it.  It's  my  notion  he'll  turn  up  some- 
where with  the  army.  He's  got  plenty  of  money  and 
is  just  the  kind  of  a  man  to  make  it  count  at  such  a 
time.     You  might  keep  an  eye  out  for  him." 

What  did  it  mean  ?  What  had  Delia  suffered  while 
he  had  been  so  happy  ?  He  glanced  hastily  over  the 
other  letters — all  but  one  at  the  bottom  of  the  pile, 
directed  in  her  familiar  hand  to  "  Mr."  J.  H.  Goodwin. 
She  had  not  learned  of  his  preferment  then — or  was  she 
angry  ?  She  did  not  know  how  thoroughly  "  Jack  "  had 
been  expunged  ;  even  the  initial  was  gone  now.  His 
commission  was  addressed  to  "  Hubert  "  Goodwin,  and 
as  such  he  had  been  mustered  in.  He  had  eliminated 
even  the  suggestion  of  that  name  whose  grotesque 
equivalent  his  love  had  chosen  for  a  pet  name.  No  one 
else  would  ever  call  him  that  again.  He  tore  it  open 
hastily.  It  was  dated  the  very  night  he  had  seen  her 
last : 

"Jack:  I  couldn't  tell  you  what  you  will  probably 
know  before  you  read  this.  1  wanted  to  go  away — to 
hide  from  it,  but  you  would  not.  You  were  right.  My 
place  is  not  with  you,  but  with  those  who  suffer  shame. 
I  shall  go  to  them  before  you  are  awake  to-morrow.  Do 
not  try  to  follow  or  find  me.  If  the  time  ever  comes 
when  I  can  be  your  wife  without  stain  to  your  good 
name,  I  will  let  you  know.  I  will  write — sometimes, 
and,  wherever  I  am,  will  read  the  Standard.  If  you 
insert  an  advertisement '  To  Dee,'  I  shall  see  it  and  will 
answer  it,  if — if  I  can.  I  shall  love  you  '  forever  and 
ever.'  Dee." 


Old  Harry's  Ltick.  273 

While  he  had  been  so  busy  about  other  things  his  love 
had  fled  out  of  his  life  !  How  barren  his  honors  seemed 
now  that  he  had  lost  her  !  All  else  was  ashes  !  But  he 
had  hope.  He  hastened  to  the  Brainerd  Institute  and 
learned  nothing  more  than  he  already  knew. 

He  sat  down  and  wrote  an  advertisement,  which  he 
sent  to  the  office  of  the  Standard. 

"  To  Dee  :     I  shall  wait  *  forever  and  ever !' 

"Jack." 

It  did  not  seem  an  extravagant  statement,  though  the 
advertising  clerk  smiled  incredulously  when  he  read  it. 

He  enclosed  a  bank-note*  to  pay  fdr  the  advertising, 
and  asked  that  whatever  remained  might  be  credited  to 
"Jack." 

Then  he  went  out  and  walked  the  streets  until  nearly 
night,  trying  to  decide  what  he  ought  to  do,  and  finally 
doing  the  very  thing  he  ought  not  to  have  done.  He 
went  to  see  Kitty  Parker. 

Perhaps  what  afterward  happened  would  have  hap- 
pened anyhow,  but  it  is  a  dangerous  thing  for  a  man  to 
seek  the  presence  of  one  attractive  woman  when  his 
heart  is  sore,  even  though  it  be  full  to  bursting,  with 
love  for  another.  And  Kitty  Parker  was  not  only  a  pretty 
girl,  but  bright  and  intelligent,  too,  and  had  unfortu- 
nately a  very  tender  regard  for  Colonel  Hubert  Good- 
win— a  regard  that  antedated  by  many  months  that 
officer's  commission. 

The  month  which  followed  was  called  by  Colonel 
Craft  a  month  of  idleness.  It  was  that  rugged  veteran's 
belief  that  the  best  way  to  make  soldiers  out  of  raw 
levies  was  to  set  them  at  once  to  doing  a  soldier's  duty 
— marching  and  fighting.  From  the  very  day  he 
assumed  command,  therefore,  he  was  clamorous  for  the 


2  74  ^   "^^^^  ^f  O^^  Harry. 

arms  and  equipment,  and  tireless  in  drill.  To  the  men, 
and  especially  to  the  officers  of  the  Legion,  these  were 
very  far  fi  om  being  idle  days.  It  takes  a  deal  of  brain, 
as  well  as  patience,  to  transform  a  thousand  men  who 
have  never  had  an  hour's  training  of  hand  or  eye  into 
efficient  soldiers,  especially  when  they  who  teach  must 
themselves  be  taught.  If  the  days  were  busy  ones  for 
the  soldiers,  they  were  overcrowded  ones  for  the  offi- 
cers. Drill,  tactics,  reports — all  the  infinity  of  detail 
which  distinguishes  military  from  civil  life — these  had  to 
be  learned  at  high  pressure,  a  year's  work  crowded  into 
a  month.  Under  these  circumstances,  Hubert  had  little 
time  for  regret.  Now  and  then,  when  the  thought  of 
his  lost  love  seemed  likely  to  overpower  him,  he  would 
get  leave  of  absence  from  the  camp  for  a  few  hours 
and  ride  out  along  the  road  which  had  become  so 
familiar  to  him  when  Henlopen  was  in  Farmer  Parker's 
care.  He  did  not  talk  with  Kitty  about  Delia  Kincaid. 
He  could  not  tell  her  all,  and  foolishly  concluded  to  say 
nothing.  She  knew,  of  course,  that  there  was  something 
wrong  between  the  lovers.  Whether  she  was  glad  or 
not,  who  shall  say  ?  That  she  sympathized  with  Hubert 
there  could  be  no  doubt,  and  her  sympathy  comforted 
him.  How  should  she  know  that  every  day  his  eyes 
scanned  the  columns  of  the  Standard  ior  an  answer  to 
his  advertisement  ?  How  should  she  know  that  he  was 
the  "  Jack  "  who  had  directed  the  advertisement  to  be 
marked  **  itwtf  " — once  a  week  until  forbidden  ?  She 
did  not  even  recall  that  his  name  was  "Jack."  She 
had  met  Miss  Kincaid,  but  she  had  never  heard  of 
"  Dee."  It  is  not  surprising,  therefore,  that  she  jour- 
neyed to  the  Western  city  near  which  the  Legion  were 
to  receive  their  mount,  under  pretense  of  visiting  a 
cousin,  but  really  that  she  might  see  the  regiment 
when  it  passed  through  on  its  way  to  the  front. 


Old  Harry's  Luck.  275 

That  was  a  proud  day  for  the  young  lieutenant- 
colonel.  He  knew  that  his  mother,  his  uncle  and  Kitty 
Parker  were  among  the  spectators ;  yet  though  he 
responded  gayly  to  the  greetings  of  these  friends,  there 
was  a  weight  on  his  heart  that  the  one  face  dearer  to 
him  than  all  others  was  missing.  The  regiment  pre- 
sented a  fine  appearance  despite  the  inexperience  of  the 
men.  It  was  but  three  days  since  they  had  received 
their  saddles.  The  better  part  of  them  had  never  been 
on  horseback  a  dozen  times  in  their  lives.  The  horses 
were  fresh  and  spirited.  Sedley  had  attended  to  their 
purchase,  and  in  each  troop  they  were  all  of  the  same 
color — black,  brown,  bay,  chestnut.  Taken  as  a  whole, 
they  were  probably  the  best  lot  of  horses  that  ever  bore 
the  brand  *'  U.  S."  upon  shoulder  and  flank. 

There  were  some  fine  mounts  among  the  officers,  but 
Damon  eclipsed  them  all,  quite  fulfilling  his  owner's 
expectation.  His  bright  eye,  swelling  nostril,  high-flung 
silver  crest  and  splendid  action  attracted  attention  not 
only  to  himself  but  to  his  graceful,  self-possessed  rider 
as  well.  The  sturdy  colonel  smiled  grimly  as  he 
listened  to  the  cheers  which  greeted  his  dashing  sub- 
ordinate and  thought  of  the  thirty-mile  march  which 
lay  before  the  regiment  on  the  other  side  of  the  river' 
ere  it  would  go  into  camp.  He  meant  to  give  men 
and  horses  a  jaunt  that  would  test  their  mettle,  and 
expected  to  see  his  lieutenant-colonel  droop  as  well  as 
the  others.  How  proudly  erect  the  experienced  soldier 
sat  in  his  saddle  !  Firmly  braced  up,  he  knew  men 
would  have  before  them  all  day  long  one  model,  at 
least,  of  soldierly  form  and  fortitude.  He  thought  there 
would  be  only  one  ;  but  when  the  sun  dropped  to  the 
edge  of  the  horizon,  and  he  sat  by  the  way-side  to 
observe  the  regiment  file  past  as  it  went  into  camp,  he 
found,  to  his  surprise,  that  his  young  subordinate  sat 


276  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

his  horse  as  firmly  and  unweariedly  as  himself,  though 
during  all  that  first  long  march  Damon  had  not  con- 
descended to  abandon  the  proud  amble  with  which  he 
set  out  and  come  down  to  a  staid  and  quiet  walk.  He 
gave  the  horse  and  rider  a  look  of  admiration  as  they 
went  by,  and  when  next  morning  he  found  both  as 
ready  for  duty  as  himself,  he  counted  it  fortunate  that 
his  immediate  subordinate  would  do  credit  to  his 
tutelage  and  example.  From  that  hour  the  old  soldier 
and  the  young  one  were  sworn  friends.  The  luck  of 
Old  Harry  still  clung  to  his  descendant.  If  Venus 
mocked  his  desire,  grim-visaged  Mars  smiled  fondly 
upon  him. 


CHAPTER  Xn. 


HOW  HISTORY   IS   MADE. 


It  was  nearly  two  years  after  the  storm  of  war  began. 
The  troopers  of  the  Sedley  Legion  had  long  since 
become  veteran  campaigners.  Their  guidons  had 
known  both  victory  and  defeat.  They  had  marched, 
scouted,  fought  and  fled.  They  had  stubbornly  impeded 
the  advance  of  a  triumphant  enemy,  and  fallen  savagely 
upon  his  rear  in  retreat.  They  had  been  the  eyes  and 
ears  of  commanding  generals  ;  had  guarded  communi- 
cations and  protected  trains,  and  sometimes  acted  as 
body-guards  arid  servitors  of  those  carrion-birds  of  our 
army,  the  cotton  speculators  who  coined  gold  out  of 
brave  men's  blood.  The  gleam  and  glitter  of  their 
bright  array  had  long  since  paled.  War  had  ceased  to 
be  a  holiday  to  them.  The  horses  of  the  various  troops 
had  lost  their  uniformity.    Beardless  boys  who  went  out 


How  History  is  Made.  277 

as  private  soldiers  wore  soldier-straps  as  complacently 
as  their  mustaches,  now.  Men  who  had  never  mounted 
a  horse  until  mustered  in,  sat  their  saddles  now  as  easily 
as  a  vaquero.  The  brilliant  officer  who  first  commanded 
them  had  won  a  star  before  he  had  been  three  months 
in  the  field,  and  Hubert  Goodwin  had  been  promoted 
with  the  hearty  approval  of  his  superior.  The  blood 
of  the  old  cavalier  served  him  well,  and  not  only  the 
regiment  he  commanded,  but  a  whole  army  were  proud 
of  the  dashing  young  soldier.  He  was  not  alone.  All 
around  him  there  were  men  who  had  leaped  from  the 
desk  to  the  saddle,  and  were  striving  in  noble  compe- 
tition for  coruscating  stars — the  priceless  rewards  of 
valor — with  which  the  firmament  of  war  was  full.  It 
was  the  day  of  miracles,  which  were  so  common  that 
men  hardly  wondered  at  them. 

A  great  battle  was  in  progress.  The  Sedley  Legion 
— now  a  "  legion  "  no  more,  but  only  Nth  Cavalry — 
was  scattered  here  and  there — a  troop  at  headquarters, 
others  with  the  trains,  two  more  upon  a  scout,  and  three 
with  the  young  colonel  in  command,  watching  Sigsby's 
Bridge  upon  the  extreme  left,  with  orders  to  prevent  a 
crossing  if  attempted  in  force,  but  not  to  attack  unless 
absolutely  necessary. 

All  day  long  the  battle  had  roared  and  surged  away 
to  the  right,  swelling  down  to  the  center,  pushing  back 
the  left,  but  still  the  troopers  of  the  Nth  Cavalry  waited 
unengaged  behind  the  wooded  crest  that  hid  them  from 
the  enemy  beyond  the  bridge.  The  day  had  been  cold 
and  lowering.  The  rain  had  swollen  the  narrow  stream 
until  it  overflowed  its  banks  and  spread  half  across  the 
bottoms  on  which  the  unpicked  cotton  stood,  the  snowy 
bolls  flecking  the  rows  of  frost-browned  plants.  Along 
the  stream  was  a  narrow  belt  of  timber,  and  through  it 
a  single  opening,  with  a  weather-beaten  bridge  across 


278  A  So?t  of  Old  Harry. 

it,  and  the  turbid  water  touching  the  stringers  on  either 
side.  The  green  leaves  and  red  berries  of  the  holly- 
dotted  the  hedgerows,  while  the  mistletoe  hung  from 
the  branches  of  the  few  ancient  giants  which  marked 
the  course  of  the  stream.  Above  the  second  growth  of 
the  low-ground  could  be  seen  the  enemy's  picket-line 
upon  the  hills  beyond,  and  now  and  then  a  couple  of 
guns,  posted  on  the  highest  of  them,  sent  a  shell  shriek- 
ing through  the  oaks  beneath  which  the  troopers  stood. 
The  side  and  crest  of  the  hill  behind  which  the  troopers 
lay  were  covered  with  dark,  clinging  cedars,  through 
which  the  road  leading  down  to  the  bridge  showed  red 
and  steep. 

Colonel  Goodwin,  pacing  back  and  forth  in  the  edge 
of  the  cedar  thicket,  watched  and  waited.  Toward 
night,  his  scouts  brought  word  that  troops  were  mass- 
ing beyond  the  river,  preparing  to  cross  in  force.  He 
reported  the  fact  to  the  commanding  general,  and  asked 
for  help.  Not  a  regiment  or  a  gun  could  be  taken  from 
its  place  in  the  beleaguered  front.  The  reports  became 
more  positive  ;  his  appeal  more  urgent.  Not  a  man 
could  be  spared  ;  so  came  the  reply,  but  the  Nth  Cav- 
alry must  prevent  the  crossing ;  an  attack  from  that 
quarter  would  be  fatal.  If  they  could  delay  the  enemy 
an  hour,  a  brigade  coming  up  from  the  rear  would 
relieve  them.  This  was  the  response  of  the  general  in 
command.  The  enemy  was  preparing  to  cross. 
Hubert  Goodwin  sent  back  three  troopers  to  find  and 
guide  the  relieving  force,  and  placed  himself  at  the 
head  of  his  men.  A  brigade  had  already  crossed  the 
bridge  and  formed  in  line  on  each  side  the  road.  They 
were  evidently  intended  to  support  the  crossing  of  a 
larger  force  which  had  not  yet  appeared,  and  for  the 
coming  of  which  they  waited.  They  outnumbered  him 
three  or  four  to  one,  but  for  the  moment  they  were  at 


How  History  is  Made.  279 

his  mercy.  The  ground  was  in  his  favor.  If  he  could 
beat  these  back,  it  might  delay  the  intended  movement 
— probably  would.  There  was  no  hope  of  doing  it  by 
any  other  means.  He  rode  along  the  ranks  and  spoke 
a  few  words  to  his  men.  His  horse  tossed  its  silver 
mane  as  proudly  and  pranced  as  daintily  as  if  on  review. 
He  knew  his  men,  and  they  knew  him.  The  hard, 
tanned  faces,  the  firm-set  lips  and  down-drawn  brows 
answered  his  appeal  even  more  satisfactorily  than  the 
cheer  that  went  up  from  their  throats.  They  were  old 
soldiers,  and,  consequently,  not  anxious  for  battle  ;  but 
not  one  of  them  would  flinch  at  any  odds. 

Then  he  returned  to  his  post.  The  bugle  sounded  ; 
some  needless  orders  flew  from  lip  to  lip  ;  sabers  rat- 
tled from  their  iron  scabbards,  and  their  curving  backs 
were  pressed  against  the  firm  broad  shoulders.  Every 
man  settled  himself  doggedly  in  his  saddle.  There  was 
a  quick  trot  to  the  brow  of  the  hill.  Then  the  bugle 
sounded  the  charge.  Every  lip  repeated  the  expected 
command,  and  with  the  silver-maned  son  of  Gray  Eagle 
in  the  lead,  the  Nth  Cavalry  swept  down  the  sharp 
incline,  in  the  face  of  shot  and  shell,  upon  the  thin 
infantry  line  in  the  bottom.  These  made  a  brave 
stand ;  but,  knowing  that  the  ground  was  firm,  the 
cavalry  wheeled  to  the  right  and  left,  and  before  they 
could  reload  or  even  fix  their  bayonets,  were  upon  them. 
They  were  forced  back  into  the  overflowed  skirt  of  tim- 
ber. Most  of  them  threw  away  their  arms  and  swam 
and  scrambled  for  the  other  side  ;  but  many  recogniz- 
ing, with  a  soldier's  quick  intuition,  the  advantage  of 
this  position,  though  the  water  was  almost  to  their 
waists,  halted  and  fired  from  behind  the  trees  at  their 
pursuers.  At  the  same  time,  a  section  of  artillery 
wheeling  into  position  on  the  road  beyond  the  bridge. 


28o  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

sent  a  perfect  hailstorm  of  shot  along  the  way  by  which 
the  cavalry  had  come. 

It  was  over  in  an  instant ;  the  retreat  sounded,  and 
the  few  who  were  left  put  their  horses  at  the  sharp,  shot- 
gashed  ridge  and  dashed  back  to  form  again  under  its 
shelter. 

The  silver-maned  charger  was  in  his  accustomed 
place,  his  eyes  flashing,  white  tail  waving  proudly  and 
nostrils  showing  red  and  hot  in  the  quivering  seal- 
brown  muzzle.  But  the  wooden  stirrups  with  the 
splashed  leather  shields  hung  empty  at  his  side. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


A    LESSON    IN    ORNITHOLOGY. 


"  Say,  Bill  ;  did  you  ever  hear  a  whipper-will  in 
Christmas  week  before  ?" 

"  Can't  say  ez  I  ever  did,  Jim,  an'  I  ain't  dead  sure  I 
hear  one  now." 

A  couple  of  Confederate  pickets  crouching  in  the 
cedar  thicket  above  Sigsby's  Bridge  were  talking  in  low 
tones,  while  the  plaintive  note  of  the  night-bird  came 
with  startling  clearness  from  the  narrow  bottom 
beyond.  The  day's  battle  had  been  a  drawn  one,  and 
the  two  armies  bivouacked  within  hearing  of  each  other. 
In  many  places  the  pickets  were  hardly  fifty  yards 
apart,  and  a  fitful  fire  ran  up  and  down  the  lines  at 
intervals  all  night  long.  Each  army  could  see  the  glare 
of  the  other's  camp-fires  reflected  from  the  trees  and 
the  lowing  sky.  Each  could  hear  the  sound  of  prepara- 
tion, too,  and  the  low,  plaintive  cadence  of  the  moans 


A  Lesson  in  Ornithology.  281 

that  went  up  from  the  wounded  and  dying  who  lay 
between  the  lines — that  saddest  of  all  the  grim  incidents 
of  war. 

"  Don't  yer  hear  that  one  down  thar  on  the  bottom  ?" 

'*  I'm  a-hearin'  of  it  straight  enough,  but  I  ain't  exactly 
sure  'bout  it's  bein'  a  whipper.  Ef  hit  wer'  June,  now, 
instead  of  December,  I  probably  wouldn't  think  nothin' 
of  it,  but  jest  at  this  time  hit  do  sound  suspicious-like." 

"  Seems  ter  be  right  across  the  run,  whar  the  cavalry 
charged  on  us,  don't  it  ?" 

"  That's  just  whar  it  is,  I've  been  a-hearin'  of  it 
quite  a  little  time  now  by  spells.  I  thought  at  first  hit 
mought  be  some  sort  of  a  sign,  and  have  hed  my  eyes 
and  ears  open  to  see  ef  thar  wer'  anythin'  goin'  on 
tharabouts.  Ye  know  the  Yankee  pickets  is  jest  in  the 
edge  of  the  wood  on  the  brow  of  the  hill  'cross  thar,  an'  I 
didn't  know  but  they  might  be  tryin'  for  the  bridge 
again.  'Tain't  likely  though,  fer  they  must  know  thet 
ef  they  couldn't  get  through  thar  by  daylight  it  ain't 
an)rway  probable  they'd  be  able  to  at  night.  I  'low  it's 
some  poor  fellow  thet's  got  hurt  a-whistling  fer  his 
mate  to  come  and  help  him  off.  Of  co'se  it's  orders  to 
fire  at  anything  we  see  a-stirrin'  toward  the  front,  but  I 
ain't  gwine  ter  shoot  at  no  whipper-wills,  ner  nobody 
thet  comes  ter  help  'em,  either.  It's  too  dark  to  make 
out  anything  clear  an'  good  down  in  the  shadder  on  the 
bottom  anyhow,  an'  ef  the  clouds  should  break  away, 
an'  I  should  see  anythin'  movin'  round  thar,  I  couldn't 
make  out  whether  it  wer'  a  man  er  a  mule — unless  thar 
wer'  a  good  many  of  'em.  That  ain't  orders,  but  it's 
sense." 

"  So  hit  ar.  Bill.  I  'low  ther's  many  a  poor  fellow 
over  thar — ours  ez  well  ez  their'n — that's  jest  a-prayin' 
fer  somebody  ter  come  an'  take  him  off,  or,  perhaps, 
even  give  em  one  drink  of  water  'fore  he  dies.     Of 


282  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

co'se,  orders  is  orders,  an  has  ter  be,  but  sojers  knows 
'bout  sech  things,  an'  the  feller  that  goes  ter  shootin' 
cause  one  of  the  t'other  side  crawls  out  ter  find  his 
pardner,  ain't  fit  ter  be  on  picket  at  sech  a  time. 
Hark !  Thar  'tis  ag'in !  Wal,  now,  ef  that  ain't  a 
whipper  then  I  don't  know  one  when  I  hears  it." 

**  Hit  do  sound  powerful  like  one — that's  a  fact." 

"  That  were  a  mighty  purty  charge  the  Yanks  made 
thar,  jest  about  sundown,  Bill  ?" 

"  The  cavalry  ?  Never  seed  the  like  !  It  were  all 
nonsense,  though  ;  ef  they'd  got  the  bridge  they  couldn't 
er  held  it." 

"  Not  a  minit." 

"  An'  all  our  folks  hed  ter  do  was  jest  ter  fall  back 
inter  the  edge  of  the  swamp,  an'  they  was  ez  safe  ez  ef 
they'd  been  inside  the  rock  of  Gibraltar." 

"  Edzactly  ;  arter  all,  'twere  jest  foolbizness,  puttin' 
a  line  over  thar  at  all.  We'd  no  bizness  a-crossin'  the 
run  till  enough  on  us  went  over  ter  do  something." 

*'  That's  so  ;  but  we  emptied  the  saddles  lively  when 
they  started  back  !  I  don't  b'leeve  more'n  half  on  'em 
got  over  the  hill.     Did  you  see  the  kunnel  ?" 

"  The  one  on  the  hoss  with  the  white  mane  ?" 

"  Edzactly." 

"  Who  could  help  seein'  of  him  ?" 

"  Wasn't  it  splendid  !  There  he  was,  with  not  more'n 
three  or  four  hundred  men  at  his  back,  chargin'  a  line 
four  times  as  strong,  an'  tryin'  ter  take  a  bridge  in  p'int 
blank  range  of  two  twelve-pounders,  that  wasn't  served 
by  men  asleep,  by  no  manner  of  means  !  He  must  have 
knowed  thar  wam't  any  chance  for  'em  ter  do  nothin', 
and  not  much  chance  of  many  of  'em  gettin'  back  ;  but 
ter  see  him  come  down  the  big  road  thar,  ahead  of  the 
line,  his  sword  over  his  head,  an'  a-lookin'  back  every 
now  an'  then  ter  see  if  his  men  was  all  right — with  the 


A  Lesson  in  Ornithology.  283 

shell  drappin'  all  about  him,  an'  tearin'  up  the  dirt  in 
front  of  'em — I  tell  you  it  was  grand  !" 

"  Our  fellers  didn't  stop  ter  have  no  argyment  with 
'em,"  said  the  other,  laughing  softly,  "  They  jest 
turned  an'  took  ter  to  the  water  like  so  many  frogs  in  a 
mill-pond." 

"  No  use  of  doin'  anything  else." 

"  Co'se  not ;  thar  war  the  critter-fellers  comin'  right 
down  on  'em,  an'  the  creek  way  over  its  banks  behind 
'em,  an  no  chance  ter  get  across  only  that  narrer  bridge. 
An'  we  couldn't  help  'em  a  mite  till  the  Yanks  war 
plum  down  to  the  bridge.  I  s'pose  they  thought  too 
many  of  us  was  crossin'  ter  the'r  side." 

The  dry,  quaint  humor  of  the  Southern  countryman 
showed  in  the  words  and  tones  of  the  speakers. 

"  Of  co'se  ;  an'  ef  it  hadn't  been  fer  that  charge,  I 
s'pose  we'd  all  been  all  over  that  bridge  pretty  soon 
a-tearin'  up  the  hill,  an'  like  as  not  rollin'  up  the'r  flank 
with  a  yell  jest  ez  we  did  the  other  wing  in  the  mom- 
in'." 

"  I  wouldn't  wonder.  They  say  that  was  the  gineral's 
plan,  an'  that's  why  our  folks  hed  been  so  mighty  keer- 
ful  not  to  make  any  show  round  here  all  day — jest 
keepin'  a  little  gyard  down  at  the  bridge,  ez  ef  the'r 
wasn't  only  a  handful  in  the  neighborhood.  But  the'r 
was  some  mis-connection  ;  nobody  were  on  hand  ter 
foller  them  two  regiments  across,  an'  they  hadn't  fairly 
got  inter  line  each  side  the  bridge,  afore  the  cavalry 
was  onto  'em — an'  they  were  a-comin'  back  without 
waitin'  for  no  pontoons," 

"  I  s'pect  the  Yankee  kunnel  seed  what  was  in  the 
wind,  an'  charged  jest  ter  break  it  up." 

"  More'n  likely  ;  he  did  it,  too,  Yer  see,  'twouldn't  do 
ter  try  ter  steal  across  ag'in,  an'  it  were  so  late  afore  the 


284  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

artillery  got  up  ter  cover  the  crossin'  thet  ther*  warn' 
no  use  ter  start  afore  nightfall." 

'*  I  s'pect  we'll  have  ter  try  it  in  the  mornin'." 

"  I  doubt  it.  Yer  see,  'tain't  no  fit  place  ter  cross 
nohow,  unless  we  could  steal  across  unbeknownst. 
Our  fellers  ought  to  have  charged  up  the  hill  yonder 
as  soon  as  they  struck  the  dirt,  instid  of  spreadin'  out 
on  the  bottom  like  a  fan,  an*  waitin'  ter  be  rid  down." 

There  is  no  keener  military  critic  than  the  observant 
veteran  in  the  ranks. 

"  Of  co'se  ;  but  I  s'pose  they  hed  their  orders,  same  as 
we  'uns." 

"  Likely  ;  but  I  don't  believe  there  was  anything  but 
the  leetle  squad  of  cavalry  to  stop  'em  then  ;  an'  that 
wouldn't  have  been  anythin'  ef  they  hadn't  squatted  like 
an  ole  har'  in  her  form  an'  waited  ter  be  rid  down  ;  but 
there'll  be  infantry  an'  artillery  thar  afore  mornin'.  I 
wonder  ef  the  Yankee  kunnel  were  killed  ?" 

"  I  seed  his  hoss  go  back  without  him." 

"  Yes,  I  seed  that,  too ;  when  the  bugle  sounded  he 
fell  inter  his  place  an'  went  up  the  hill  with  stirrups 
flyin'  loose,  ez  proud  an'  stiddy  ez  ef  his  master  war  on 
his  back." 

"  Which  he  ain't  ever  likely  ter  be  ag'in." 

"  Prob'ly  not.  That  were  a  powerful  unhealthy 
place  down  by  the  bridge  when  our  folks  was  once  out 
of  the  way,  an'  not  a  sign  of  cover  goin'  back  up  the 
hill.  Thar's  the  bird  ag'in !  Yer  see  that  ain't  no 
whipper." 

•'  I  s'pect  yer  right ;  but  the  feller's  playin'  it  fer  all 
it's  wuth  this  time,  no  mistake.     What's  that  ?" 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  scuffle  at  the  rear  ;  cries  of 
**  Whoa  !"  and  the  shouted  command,  "  Stop  him  !" 

"  Reckon  somebody's  hoss  is  loose,"  said  the  other, 
carelessly. 


A  Lesson  m  Or^tithology.  285 

"  Here  he  comes  !" 

The  sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs  splashing  down  the  clayey- 
road  toward  their  post  was  now  plainly  heard. 

"  Looks  ez  ef  he  were  desartin'  to  the  enemy,  don't 
it  ?    Shall  I  shoot  ?" 

"Tain't  no  use,  but — here  he  is  !" 

Both  discharged  their  gfuns,  instinctively,  as  a  horse 
dashed  by  them  along  the  road  by  which  they  were 
posted.     They  began  at  once  to  reload. 

"  Was  there  anybody  on  him,  Jim  ?" 

"  I  don't  believe  there  was — it  was  so  dark  I  couldn't 
see — but  the  stirrups  was  a-flyin'  ;  I  heerd  them.  Thar 
he  goes  across  the  bridge  !" 

"  Looks  like  it  war  a  deserter,  don't  hit  ?" 

"  Listen." 

The  horse  had  stopped  on  the  other  side  of  the  bridge 
and  gave  an  inquiring  neigh, 

"  Jest  listen  at  the  whipper,  Bill — ain't  he  a-goin'  it  ?" 

"  An'  the  hoss  is  answerin'  him,  Jim." 

'*  'Pon  my  soul,  I  b'leeve  he  is  !" 

The  horse  was  evidently  retracing  his  steps,  whinny- 
ing from  time  to  time  with  startled  inquiry.  The 
whip-poor-will  call  was  rapidly  repeated,  with  an 
unmistakably  persuasive  emphasis. 

"  It's  some  feller  callin'  his  hoss,  Bill." 

"  But  this  one  come  from  our  side." 

"  Hit  must  be  one  o'  their'n  thet  didn't  git  back.  Yer 
know  ther  war  a  number  of  'em  come  cl'ar  acrost  the 
bridge." 

"  So  they  did — the  kunnel  among  'em.  I  wonder  how 
any  of  'em  got  back." 

'*  This  one  didn't,  ye  see ;  an'  hearin'  his  master  a 
callin'  of  him,  he's  answered.    That's  the  way  on't.  Bill." 

"  Wal,  don't  that  beat  any  thin'?  I  tell  ye,  Jim,  a  hoss 
knows  'most  ez  much  ez  a  man— ef  he 's  treated  right." 


286  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

"  Sometimes  more.  Yer  couldn't  fool  a  hoss  with  no 
whipper-will  song,  'specially  of  a  New  Year's  Eve." 

"  Thet's  so." 

The  soldiers  laughed  under  their  breath. 

"  Who's  there  ?" 

Footsteps  were  hurriedly  approaching  from  the  rear. 

"  All  right,"  answered  an  officer,  in  a  low  tone,  as  he 
joined  them  from  the  reserve. 

"  What  was  it,  Capting  ?" 

"  The  colonel's  horse  has  deserted  to  the  enemy," 
answered  the  officer,  unable  to  repress  his  laughter. 

"  Anybody  on  him  ?" 

"  Not  a  soul ;  but  he's  taken  the  colonel's  kit — saddle- 
bags, holsters  and  all." 

The  captain  chuckled  again  over  his  superior's  mis- 
fortune, 

"  Which  hoss  was  it  ?"  asked  Bill. 

"  The  bay  he  got  up  in  Kentucky." 

"  How  did  it  happen  ?" 

"  He's  been  a-fretting  for  half  an  hour,  biting  and 
kicking  like  mad.  The  boy  couldn't  do  anything  with 
him,  and  the  colonel,  who  always  thinks  he  can  do  every- 
thing better'n  anybody  else,  went  to  try  his  hand.  He 
no  sooner  got  hold  of  the  bridle  than  he  was  pitched  on 
his  head  in  the  mud,  and  the  horse  started  full  tilt  for 
the  Yankee  lines.  I  s'pose  he  was  crazy,  but  it's  a  good 
joke  on  the  colonel  all  the  same." 

"  Capting,  that  hoss  has  found  his  old  master  over 
thar.    Jest  listen  at  him  now." 

Short  neighs  of  recognition  came  up  to  their  ears  out 
of  the  darkness  in  the  valley,  and  the  whip-poor-will 
call  was  repeated  softly  and  quickly. 

**  I  believe  you're  right,"  said  the  captain,  after  lis- 
tening a  moment.  "  There  he  goes,"  he  added,  as  he 
heard  the  sound  of  the  horse's  footsteps  walking  away 


A  Lesson  in  Oriiithology.  287 

from  them  along  the  road.  Almost  instantly  there  was 
a  commotion  among  the  pickets  on  the  crest  of  the  hill 
beyond  the  river.  Shots  were  fired  and  a  general  alarm 
seemed  to  be  given. 

"  The  durn  fools  '11  shoot  ther  own  man  !"  said  Jim, 
in  a  tone  of  disgust. 

"  An'  the  hoss  too,"  added  Bill,  regretfully. 

"  If  he'd  jest  charge  on  'em,  I  reckon  he'd  stampede 
the  post,"  said  the  officer.  "  And  that's  what  he's  doin' 
too  !"  he  added,  excitedly.  "  There  he  goes,  by  thun- 
der !" 

The  rush  of  gall  oping  hoofs  was  heard  dashing  up  the 
opposite  hillside  ;  there  were  a  half-dozen  shots,  shouts, 
a  drumbeat,  and  all  the  vague  clamor  of  a  night-alarm 
in  an  army  lying  upon  its  arms  in  constant  apprehen- 
sion of  an  attack. 

"  Well,"  said  the  officer,  with  quiet  humor,  "  the  colo- 
nel has  lost  a  mighty  good  horse  and  the  Yankees  have 
lost  some  sleep.  We  needn't  be  afraid  they'll  disturb 
us  any  more  to-night,  but  I  hope  it  won't  be  our  turn  to 
be  in  the  lead  if  our  folks  try  to  cross  that  bridge  in  the 
morning.  The  Yankees'll  have  twenty  guns  ready  to 
play  on  it  by  that  time.     Good-bye." 

The  officer  turned  back  toward  the  reserve,  and  left 
the  picket  quiet  and  watchful,  waiting  impatiently  for 
the  relief. 

"  Jim,"  said  Bill,  after  a  while,  "  I  wouldn't  wonder  if 
the  story  got  out  in  the  newspapers  an'  worked  its  way 
along  into  books,  an'  so  finally  come  to  be  believed, 
that  a  whipper-will  was  heard  a-singin'  atween  the 
lines  of  these  two  armies  this  very  night,  cold  an'  dark 
an'  the  last  day  of  December  ez  it  is.  Yer  see  them 
Yankee  newspaper  chaps  don't  know  a  whipper-will 
from  a  water-rat,  and  don't  know  but  they're  just  as 
likely  ter  sing  New  Year's  Eve  ez  May-day  night.     Bet 


288  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

ye  what  ye  dare,  Jim,  the  No'th'n  papers'll  hev  a  big 
splurge  over  that  thar  whipper's  singin'  ter  the  dead  an' 
dyin'  down  where  the  Yankee  cavalry  got  cut  up." 

"  Shouldn't  wonder,"  answered  Jim,  sagely. 

And,  sure  enough,  they  did.  It  is  thus  that  history 
is  made.  The  mid- winter  whip-poor-will  of  Stone 
River  still  lives,  a  splendid  example  of  the  force  of 
human  credulity.  Science  is  not  less  powerful  against 
the  supernatural  than  truth  against  sentiment.  Bill 
Sykes  and  Jim  Blaisdell  guessed  out  the  truth  ;  but 
they  were  not  newspaper  correspondents,  and  the 
world  never  got  their  version  of  the  marvel  that  hap- 
pened between  the  picket  lines  at  Sigsby's  Bridge  that 
night. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

OUT  OF  THE  DARKNESS. 

"You've  had  a  close  call.  Colonel." 

The  man  who  spoke  wore  the  uniform  of  an  army 
surgeon.  The  one  he  addressed  sat  in  a  rude  reclining 
chair,  on  the  porch  of  a  hospital,  which  stood  upon  a 
bluff  overlooking  a  noble  river,  which  was  covered  with 
gunboats  and  transports.  There  was  a  hint  of  spring 
in  the  air  and  sunshine.  Forts  and  earth-works  showed 
red  against  the  brown  hill-sides.  A  half-mile  away 
was  a  city.  Lines  of  white  tents  were  visible  here  and 
there.  Flags  dotted  the  landscape  with  color.  The 
invalid,  who  was  wrapped  in  an  army  blanket,  with  a 
soft  red  rug  thrown  over  it,  looked  up  inquiringly  from 
his  pillow. 


Otit  of  the  Darkness.  289 

"You  see,  it  was  a  good  while  before  you  had  any- 
proper  care,  and  that  bullet,  which  only  made  a  new 
parting  in  your  hair,  played  the  mischief  with  the  brain 
under  it.  It  seemed  to  touch  the  very  centre  of  volition. 
Involuntary  action  was  not  much  impaired  ;  that's  what 
saved  you.  Liquids  placed  in  your  mouth  were  swal- 
lowed, and,  fortunately,  assimilated.  The  straps  on 
your  shoulders  showed  your  rank,  but  it  was  a  good 
while  before  we  were  able  to  learn  who  you  were. 
There  didn't  seem  to  be  any  scarcity  of  colonels,  and 
we  couldn't  learn  of  any  who  were  unaccounted  for." 

The  doctor  laughed  quietly  at  his  own  humor. 

"  How  long  has  it  been  since  the  battle  ?"  asked  the 
invalid,  weakly. 

"  Do  you  see  that  hint  of  color  in  the  orchards  across 
the  river  ?" 

The  young  man  looked  languidly  in  the  direction 
indicated,  and  signified  assent  by  a  movement  of  the 
eyelids  rather  than  a  nod  of  the  head. 

"  What  do  you  think  it  is  ?" 

"  Peach-blossoms  ?" 

"  Exactly.  They  are  a  little  late  this  year,  they  tell 
me.  This  is  the  last  day  of  February,  and  the  battle,  or 
your  part* of  it,  at  least,  was  the  last  day  of  December." 

"  That — is  ?"  glancing  toward  the  city. 

"  Nashville." 

"  We  won — I  suppose  ?" 

"  Naturally,  or  you  would  hardly  be  here  in  my  care." 

"  And  my  regiment  ?" 

"It  is  at  the  front." 

"  When  can  I  join  it  ?" 
^   '*  Can  you  bear  the  truth  ?" 

The  officer's  lips  quivered,  but  he  nodded  affirmatively. 

"  I  believe  you  can,"  said  the  surgeon,  with  a  satisfied 
smile, "  and  it  is  better  for   you  to  know  the  truth   at 


290  A   So7i  of  Old  Harry. 

once  than  be  finding  it  out  by  degrees.  Well,  then,  I 
suppose  you  will  hardly  go  back  to  the  regiment  at  all." 

A  spasm  of  pain  passed  over  the  young  man's  face. 

"  Is  it  as  bad  as  that,  doctor  ?" 

"Well — yes  and  no.  A  man  who  has  had  your  luck 
should  not  speak  of  anything  as  bad.  Let  me  give  you 
a  stimulant  and  light  a  cigar,  and  I  will  see  if  I  can  get 
you  back  into  the  world,  so  that  you  will  know  where 
you  stand." 

The  doctor  poured  some  spirits  into  a  glass  upon  a 
stand  near  by,  and  gave  the  other  a  sip.  Lighting  a 
cigar,  he  seated  himself  upon  a  camp-stool  facing  the 
couch,  and  after  a  few  whiffs,  said  : 

"  I  have  been  expecting  these  questions  for  a  week 
and  been  fearful  that  something  might  happen  to  shock 
you  before  you  were  prepared  for  it.  You  must  under- 
stand that  I  think  you  are  all  right — that  you  only  need 
care  and  rest  and  attention  to  be  as  good  as  you  ever 
were ;  but  my  associates  of  the  medical  staff  do  not 
agree  with  me.  They  say  it  is  possible,  but  not  probable. 
You  must  understand,  therefore,  that  your  recovery 
depends  very  largely  upon  yourself,  and  just  now  the 
most  important  thing  is  that  you  should  not  suffer  any 
sudden  shock.  I  will  tell  you  all  I  know,  and  the  rest 
you  must  gather  up  little  by  little,  never  allowing  your- 
self to  get  excited  about  anything.     Can  5'ou  do  it  ?" 

""l  will  try." 

''  That  is  it — just  put  on  the  brakes  and  I  don't  believe 
you  will  be  in  any  sort  of  danger.  Now,  what  is  the 
last  thing  you  remember  ?" 

"  I  think  it  is — Was  there  a  charge  ?" 

"  Down  a  hill — toward  a  bridge,"  suggested  ^ne  sur- 
geon. 

"  Yes  ;  I  remember  they  had  crossed  the  bridge.  It 
was  a  wicked  thing  ;  but  it  had  to  be  done." 


Out  of  the  Darkness.  291 

The  speaker  closed  his  eyes  and  shuddered. 

"  No  doubt  about  that ;  and  it  was  well  done — 
splendidly  done.  Everybody  is  proud  of  it.  They  say 
the  charge  saved  us  from  an  attack  on  the  left  flank  that 
would  probably  have  bee'n  fatal,  hard-pressed  as  we  were 
on  the  right." 

"  We  didn't  get  the  bridge  ?" 

"  No,  but  you  threw  the  troops  which  had  already 
crossed  into  inextricable  confusion,  and  there  was  no 
time  to  supply  their  places  with  others  before  dark." 

The  officer  nodded. 

"  There  were  a  few  reached  the  bridge  and  some  say 
you  went  clean  across  it." 

"  I  believe  I  did,"  with  a  flush. 

"  The  next  in  command,  thinking  you  were  lost  and 
satisfied  that  all  had  been  done  that  could  be  accom- 
plished, ordered  the  retreat  to  be  sounded.  Your  horse 
returned  to  his  place,  but  you  were  not  with  him." 

"I  seem  to  remember  falling  off." 

"  Do  you  remember  anything  more  ?" 

The  other  shook  his  head. 

"  Some  time  during  the  night  you  came  charging  into 
our  lines,  half -unconscious,  clinging  to  a  strange  horse — 
a  Confederate  officer's  horse,  in  fact.  Do  you  know  how 
you  got  it  ?" 

He  shook  his  head  again. 

"  I  had  a  curiosity  to  kiaow,  for  it  seemed  to  me  most 
probable  that  the  shot  you  received  was  fired  by  our 
pickets.     You  might  have  been  stunned  by  your  fall  ?'• 

"  I  seem  to  have  a  remembrance  of  being  down — 
afraid  I  would  be  trampled  on,  you  know — and  then 
getting  up — on  a  horse — but  it  is  like  a  dream.  I  seem 
to  have  been  dreaming  ever  since." 

"  Well,  you  have  been.  Your  regiment  was  sent  to 
the  rear — what  was  left  of  it,  at  least-—" 


292  A  Soil  of  Old  Harry. 

"  There  were  only  three  companies,"  interrupted  the 
other. 

"  I  know — the  rest  were  detached.  Well,  there 
weren't  many  left — men  nor  horses — and  they  were  sent 
back  after  the  charge.  A  neW  brigade  which  had  just 
come  to  the  field  was  ordered  into  position  there.  They, 
of  course,  did  not  know  you — a  good  many  thought  you 
were  a  Confederate,  indeed,  but  you  were  sent  to  a  field 
hospital,  and  after  awhile  brought  to  the  city — not 
exactly  unconscious,  but  curiously  out  of  joint  " — the 
surgeon  tapped  his  head  to  explain  his  meaning. 
*'  Nobody  expected  you  to  get  well,  and  an  army  hospi- 
tal is  a  poor  place  for  such  cases  as  yours.  I  happened 
to  be  down  at  the  church  where  you  were,  and  was 
attracted  to  you  by  a  singular  circumstance.  You  did 
not  seem  to  know  anything  that  went  on  about  you. 
You  could  see — for  you  flinched  from  a  blow  if  your 
eyes  were  open — and  could  hear,  for  the  calls  which  were 
sounded  at  a  battery  on  the  hill  above  the  hospital 
seemed  to  start  some  train  of  thought  in  your  mind.  But 
the  thing  that  struck  my  attention  was  that  you  kept 
repeating  over  and  over  again  exactly  the  same  expres- 
sion that  a  patient  of  mine  whose  case  interested  me 
greatly  had  used  in  something  the  same  way." 

"  What  was  that  ?" 

"  Oh,  it  wasn't  anything  of  importance,"  answered  the 
doctor,  evasively.  "  I'll  tell  you  about  it  some  time. 
You've  had  about  enough  for  the  present.  What  I  want 
to  tell  you  now  is  that  I  had  you  brought  here,  and 
after  a  while  learned  who  you  were.  You  mustn't  let  it 
disturb  you,  but  your  friends  supposed  you  to  be  dead. 
Somebody  had  taken  everything  from  your  pockets 
before  you  reached  the  hospital — perhaps  while  you 
were  on  the  field — and  so  you  were  reported  dead  or 
missing." 


Out  of  the  Darkness,  293 

"  And  some  one  has  been  put  in  my  place  ?"  asked 
the  young  man,  chokingly. 

"  Don't  let  that  trouble  you.  The  day  before  you 
were  shot,  you  were  nominated  a  brigadier-general  ;  and 
when  the  story  of  your  gallant  conduct  was  received, 
though  you  were  then  missing  and  might  be  dead,  the 
Senate  conrirmed  the  appointment  and  the  President 
signed  the  commission.  There,  there  !  Don't  let  your 
good  luck  break  you  down  now.  There's  many  a  man 
would  be  willing  to  change  places  with  you,  even  if  you 
were  as  dead  as  everybody  thinks  you,  for  such  honor 
as  that." 

The  tears  were  running  over  the  sunken  cheeks  down 
into  the  brown  beard.  The  doctor  handed  him  the  glass 
and  required  him  to  take  more  of  the  stimulant. 

"  Now,  I  am  going  to  have  you  taken  back  to  your 
room,"  he  said,  "  give  you  an  opiate,  and  you  must  go 
to  sleep.  In  the  morning  you  must  tell  me  what  word 
I  am  to  send  to  your  people.  I  have  let  no  one  know, 
as  yet,  that  you  are  alive." 

The  next  day  Hubert  Goodwin  was  decidedly  better. 
The  languor  and  apathy  which  had  previously  affected 
him  had  perceptibly  diminished,  and  he  was  already 
beginning  to  make  plans  for  the  future.  The  first  thing 
to  be  done  was  to  re-introduce  himself  to  the  world  who 
believed  him  dead.  He  thought  it  would  have  been 
pleasant  to  have  remained  incognito  awhile  longer— to 
have  watched  the  world  until  the  weariness  he  felt 
passed  entirely  away.  But  then  he  would  lose  his  share 
in  the  great  events  that  were  happening — that  share 
already  so  brilliant.  He  determined  to  annotmce  his 
return  to  life,  or  consciousness,  at  least,  by  a  letter  to 
the  President,  thanking  him  for  the  promotion  he  had 
receivQdv 


294  -^   "^^^^  ^f  ^^^  Harry. 

The  surgeon  wrote  the  few  lines  necessary,  at  his 
dictation,  which  he  signed  with  difficulty. 

''And  you  must  telegraph  to  my  mother  !" 

"  Of  course,"  answered  the  surgeon,  dryly,  "We  will 
have  her  here  in  no  time.  You  think  you  could  stand 
it  to  see  her — and  anybody  else,  I  suppose  ?" 

"I  guess  so,"  answered  the  young  man,  thoughtfully. 

"  You  know  you  are  not — very  strong  yet — and  have 
to  be  watched  all  the  time  when  you  are  asleep,  lest  you 
should  do  yourself  harm." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  the  patient,  a  little 
irritably. 

"  Well,  you  see,  one  of  the  queer  things  about  your 
case  is  that  you  had  all  the  time  a  sort  of  semi-conscious- 
ness of  the  depression  of  the  skull  and  its  pressure  on 
the  brain.  This  consciousness  showed  itself  in  sleep, 
and  you  were  all  the  time  trying  to  dig  it  out  of  the 
way.  So  you  kept  the  wound  torn  open  all  the  time, 
and  we  have  had  to  keep  it  bandaged  and  plastered  and 
your  hands  tied,  too,  until — well,  until  we  concluded  to 
have  you  watched  while  you  slept." 

The  tinith  was  that  the  young  officer  had  undergone 
that  most  delicate  of  surgical  operations,  trepanning, 
with  the  difference  that  in  his  case  a  portion  of  the  skull 
had  been  taken  from  the  head  of  a  less  fortunate 
sufferer,  and  carefully  fitted  to  the  opening.  As  death 
had  just  occurred,  and  the  subject  from  which  the 
portion  was  taken  was  of  about  the  same  age,  it  soon 
began  to  grow  into  its  place,  but  the  irritation  of  the 
swiftly  knitting  edges  gave  such  annoyance  to  the 
patient  that  he  was  in  constant  danger  of  displacing  it. 
The  surgeon  did  not  think  it  wise  to  let  him  know  this 
fact,  and  yet  felt  that  he  must  offer  some  explanation 
of  the  constant  watch-care  exercised  over  him,  both 
while  sleeping  and  awake. 


'  Out  of  the  Darkness.  295 

"  I  heard  that  your  uncle — your  stepfather,  I  believe," 
continued  the  surgeon,  "  came  and  got  your  horse.  He 
had  a  bullet  through  the  fore-arm,  I  think,  but  was 
doing  well.  They  say  the  regiment  was  almost  as 
proud  of  him  as  of  their  colors." 

Tears  showed  under  the  young  officer's  lashes  as  he 
closed  his  eyes  and  whistled  softly  to  himself  to  hide 
his  agitation. 

"  Do  you  know  what  they  call  you  in  the  hospital  ?" 
asked  the  surgeon,  with  a  smile. 

"What?" 

"They  call  you  the  Whip-poor-will — because  every 
now  and  then  you  take  to  whistling,  as  you  did  just 
now,  only  sometimes  you  whistle  a  great  deal  louder 
and  keep  it  up  by  the  hour  at  a  time." 

"  It  is  the  way  my  uncle  always  teaches  his  horses." 

"  By  the  way,  I  remember  seeing  in  the  papers  that  a 
whip-poor-will  was  heard  singing  between  the  lines  the 
night  of  the  battle,  despite  the  fact  that  it  was  mid- 
winter and  freezing  cold.  I  suspect  it  was  you  instead 
of  the  bird." 

"  Likely  as  not." 

"  You've  been  at  it  ever  since,  anyhow.  You  haven't 
asked  me  who  identified  you." 

"  Some  of  the  men  ?" 

"  No,  indeed  !" 

"  Perhaps  I  told  you  myself  ?"  with  a  smile. 

"  Oh,  but  you  didn't  know  yourself.  If  you  had  told 
us  we  shouldn't  have  believed  a  word  you  said.  Give 
it  up  ?" 

The  other  bowed  assent  indifferently. 

"  See  if  you  can't  guess.  Who  would  be  most  apt  to 
hunt  you  up  ?" 

"  Sam  ?" 

"  Who  is  Sam  ?"  '      ■ 


296  A   Son  of  Old  Harry. 

"  My  boy — my  servant." 

"  Pshaw  !  no.     Think,  now — a  woman." 

"  What — who  ?    A  woman  ?" 

Was  it — could  it  be  ?  Alas  !  he  knew  it  was  not. 
Memory  had  come  back,  and  with  it  the  recollection  of  a 
letter  received  from  his  mother  three  months  before  : 

"  Horace  says  I  must  write  and  tell  you,"  it  had  said, 
*'  that  he  has  traced  the  Kincaids  finally.  They  are 
prospering  under  another  name.  Dee  w'as  sick  for  a 
long-  time  after  she  left  school — in  an  asylum  for 
several  months.  She  was  discharged  as  cured,  and  mar- 
ried a  short  time  after.  Horace  went  to  see  her,  so 
that  there  should  be  no  doubt  about  the  matter.  He 
says  he  never  saw  her  looking  better.  She  pretended 
not  to  know  him,  and,  he  says,  carried  it  out  splendidly. 
When  he  asked  her  if  she  had  forgotten  you — Jack — she 
said  :  *  Jack  ?  Jack  ?'  *  Yes  ;  Jack  Goodwin,'  he  said — 
angrily  enough,  I  do  not  doubt.  '  Jack  Goodwin  ?' 
she  repeated,  smiling  in  his  face  as  bold  as  brass. 
"  Seems  as  if  I  had  heard  the  name,  but  I  cannot  recall 
the  person.'  When  he  told  her  he  had  come  on  purpose 
to  see  her  because  you  wished  to  know  how  she  was 
and  asked  her  if  she  had  any  word  to  send  to  you,  she 
professed  great  surprise,  but  said,  in  her  sweetest  way  : 
'Tell  him  I  am  sorry  I  do  not  remember  him,  but  I  am 
glad  he  does  not  forget  me.' 

"  And  this  is  all  there  is  of  it,  my  son.  I  know  it  will 
almost  break  your  heart,  but  she  was  not  worthy  of  you. 
I  received  a  paper  containing  her  marriage  notice. 
I  do  not  send  it  to  you,  judging  that  you  will  prefer  to 
know  nothing  more  about  her.  We  feel  as  if  we  had 
lost  a  daughter.  I  believe  Horace  thought  almost  as 
much  of  her  as  you  did.  We  cannot  understand  it,  but, 
as  he  says,  *  seeing  is  believing,'     Of  course,  we  have 


Out    of  the  Darkness.  297 

got  to  forget  her,  too,  and  I  suppose  the  easiest  way  will 
be  to  say  nothing  more  about  her." 

"  And  she  promised  to  be  mine  *  forever  and  ever, 
the  young  man  said,  as   he  bowed  his  head  upon  his 
hands  after  reading  the  letter.     All  the  rest  of  it  had 
faded  from  his  memory.     These  words  seemed  etched 
forever  on  his  consciousness. 

**  You  haven't  guessed  yet,"  said  the  surgeon,  desiring 
to  interrupt  what  he  judged  to  be  an  unpleasant 
reverie. 

"  Not  my  mother  ?" 

The  other  shook  his  head. 

"  There  is  no  one  else." 

"  Did  you  not  know  a  lady — a  young  lady — black  hair 
— dark  eyes-^red  cheeks  ?"  naming  each  attribute  separ- 
ately and  suggestively. 

The  young  m^  shook  his  head  with  blank  negation. ; 
There  was  no  woman  in  the  world  for  him  but  Dee ; 
and   Dee  was  no  longer  his  ;  married,  months   ago — 
another's  !     His  face  grew  pale  ;  he  was  sick  at  heart. 
He  did  not  wish  to  hear  of  any  other. 

"  Never  knew  a  young  lady  named — named — Kitty  ?" 
the  doctor  suggested. 

The  young  man  smiled  languidly. 

"  Ah  !  I  thought  so.  It  really  frightened  me  when 
you  guessed  everybody  else  and  said  nothing  of  her. 
Such  a  splendid  girl,  too  !  But  when  one's  head  has 
been  out  of  gear  for  a  while,  it  takes  some  time  to  get 
his  bearings  again.  Well,  sir — she  came,  this  Miss 
Kitty — what's  her  other  name  ?" 

"Parker." 

"  That's  it  ;  you  are  getting  along  finely — well,  she 
came  about  six  weeks  ago,  maybe  more — and  just 
began  a  systematic  search  for  you.     You  see,  the  trouble 


298  A    Son  of  Old  Harry. 

was  that  nobody  could  be  found  to  correspond  with 
your  '  descriptive  list.'  There  was  very  little  fighting 
just  at  that  point,  except  the  charge  you  made,  and  no 
one  having  your  rank  or  of  your  description  was  found 
there.  There  were  two  theories  :  one,  that  you  had 
been  captured,  and  the  other  that  you  had  wandered  off 
and  died  on  some  other  part  of  the  line.  Miss  Kitty 
determined  to  find  out  the  truth.  She  is  a  very  decided 
girl,  or  she  would  never  have  done  what  she  did.  She 
thought  you  were  dead,  of  course,  and  went  and  hunted 
up  all  the  "■  burying  details  "  and  showed  them  your 
picture,  hoping  to  learn  where  you  had  been  buried. 
She  had  copies  of  it  made,  too,  and  sent  to  the  Confed- 
erate surgeons,  but  could  get  no  trace  of  you. 

"  Finally,  she  happened  to  run  across  the  surgeon 
who  examined  you  when  first  brought  in,  and  so  traced 
you  to  my  hands.  Of  course,  I  knew  the  portrait  as 
soon  as  I  set  eyes  on  it,  and  she  hafi  been  here  ever 
since  and  has  taken  the  best  kind  of  care  of  you. 
There's  no  nurse  so  good  for  a  man  as  a  woman  who 
loves  him." 

"  She  must  have  taken  a  great  deal  for  granted,"  said 
the  other  petulantly. 

"  Now,  see  here,  young  man,"  interposed  the  surgeon, 
jocularly,  "  don't  you  go  to  breaking  the  poor  girl's 
heart  by  talking  in  that  way.  You  owe  her  a  good  deal 
more  than  you  think — more  than  you  will  ever  owe  any- 
body else." 

There  was  an  impatient  movement  from  the  couch. 

"  There  aren't  many  girls  that  would  have  been  as 
faithful  and  persistent,"  continued  the  surgeon  ;  **  and 
now  she  is  frightened  nearly  to  death  lest  you  should  be 
displeased  with  her.  If  you  don't  treat  her  right,  I  shall 
wish  I  had  left  you  to  your  fate  instead  of  bringing  you 
here  and  making  your  case  special." 


Out  of  the  Darkness.  299 

"  Why  didn't  you  ?"  asked  the  patient  wearily,  half- 
turning  his  head  away  and  gazing  at  the  rough  board 
partition. 

"As  I  told  you,  I  should  have  done  so  if  it  had 
not  been  for  a  peculiarity  of  your  case  which  inter- 
ested me.  I  was  down  at  McKendree — that's  the 
name  of  the  church  where  the  hospital  was — one  day, 
and  heard  you  whistle.  *  Hellow,  doctor,'  I  said  to 
my  friend  ;  *  have  you  got  an  aviary  here  ?' 

"  *  O,  that's  our  whip-poor-will,'  he  replied.  "  By  the 
way,  you  are  interested  in  such  things,  suppose  you 
come  and  have  a  look  at  the  fellow  ?  Nobody  here 
thinks  he  has  a  ghost  of  a  chance,  but  he  persists  in 
living ;  and,  well,  there  can  be  no  harm  in  looking  at 
him.' 

"  You  see  he  knew  that  alienism  was  my  specialty,  I 
had  been  assistant-superintendent  of  an  insane  asylum 
for  years  before  I  entered  the  service,  and  would  have 
been  superintendent  if  I  had  not  been  a  better  medical 
man  than  politician. 

"  Well,  we  went  into  the  body  of  the  church  and 
found  you  in  one  of  the  pews  they  had  transformed  into 
cots,  whistling  away  for  dear  life,  greatly  to  the  annoy- 
ance of  the  other  patients,  who  were,  however,  very 
lenient  and  kindly  to  your  infirmity.  The  nurse  said 
you  had  been  worse  than  usual  that  day,  meaning  that 
you  had  whistled  more.  While  I  was  looking  at  you, 
you  stopped.  The  expression  of  your  face  suddenly 
changed,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  y  ou  had  received  a 
new  mental  impression,  either  from  sound  or  touch. 
You  did  not  open  your  eyes  ;  but  when  I  pressed  back 
the  lids  the  orbs  rolled  about  in  their  sockets  uneasily, 
showing  an  uncomfortable  sensitiveness  to  light. 
Finally,  the  expression  of  your  countenance  softened 
•and  you  said,  solemnly  : 


300 


A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 


*' '  Forever  and  ever,  Amen.'  " 

The  officer  started. 

"  You  are  surprised  ?  Well,  I  don't  wonder.  Of 
course,  if  I  had  known  that  you  had  been  a  divinity 
student,  it  would  not  have  seemed  quite  so  strange  ;  but 
the  fact  is  that  this  very  sentence  was  the  keynote,  or,, 
rather,  the  insoluble  puzzle  of  one  of  the  most  interest- 
ing cases  I  have  ever  known.  So,  when  you  repeated  it 
over  and  over  again,  I  naturally  took  an  intersst  in 
you,  and  the  result  is — well,  I  have  added  quite  a  little  to 
my  reputation,  or  shall,  when  you  make  me  the  medical 
officer  on  your  staff,  as  I  shall  expect  you  to  do  as  soon 
as  you  get  the  stars  on  your  shoulders." 

"And  I'll  do  it,  doctor,"  said  the  young  man,  heartily. 
"You  may  count  on  that." 

"  All  right,"  answered  the  surgeon,  jestingly.  "  Here's 
my  card  ;  so  there  will  be  no  excuse  or  delay  about  the 
matter." 

He  handed  the  young  officer  a  card  as  he  spoke,  on 
which  was  printed : 


"  I'll  not  forget  it,  and  only  hope  you  will  not  refuse 
to  come  on  my  demand.  But — what  was  the  other  case 
you  refer  to  ?" 

"  The  other  case  ?  O,  yes — the  '  forever-and-ever- 
amen,'  case.  Well,  it  was  a  curious  one.  Let  me  see," 
he  continued,  taking  out  his  watch.  "  I've  only  got  a 
few  minutes,  but  I  can  give  you  the  main  points  of  it 


OtU  of  the  Darkjiess.  301 

It  was  while  I  was  at  the  Institution,  you  know,  just 
about  the  beginning  of  the  war,  a  young  lady  was 
brought  there  who  had  only  two  thoughts  left  in  her 
mind.  She  would  speak — sometimes,  not  very  often — 
but  the  only  word  she  uttered  was  *  Jack.'  " 

There  was  a  groan  from  the  cot. 

"It  was  hard.  I  suppose  you  can  sympathize  with 
her.  I  don't  think  the  word  meant  anything  to  her, 
though.  She  just  repeated  it  mechanically.  She  had 
been  at  school  for  years  and  had  overworked  herself, 
so  that  the  brain  all  gave  out — was  completely  dis- 
organized, so  far  as  thought  was  concerned.  She  was 
very  quiet  and  gentle  ;  never  made  any  trouble  ;  did 
whatever  she  was  set  to  doing,  but  did  it  entirely 
mechanically.  She  would  feed  herself  if  she  saw  others 
eating,  but  left  her  food  untouched  if  she  did  not.  She 
would  sew  if  givena  needle  and  saw  a  few  stitches  taken, 
but  she  sewed  right  on,  whether  there  was  a  thread  in 
the  needle  or  not. 

"  She  had  been  a  remarkably  fine  scholar,  I  was  told, 
but  she  had  forgotten  every  word  in  the  language  except 
'  Jack,'  and  every  letter.  She  did  not  understand  any 
thing  that  was  told  her  ;  would  answer  no  questions 
and  did  not  know  her  own  name  or  anything  else.  As 
she  improved  in  health,  we  tried  every  means  we  could 
devise  to  awaken  the  slumbering  intellect,  but  all  to  no 
purpose.  We  brought  her  a  dog,  a  cat,  a  piano,  books, 
but  nothing  could  awaken  the  least  sign  of  recognition 
or  interest,  and  I  should  have  given  up  the  case  as 
utterly  incurable,  but  for  the  fact  that  we  began  to  find 
scribbled  on  the  books  and  papers  in  her  room  the  very 
sentence  you  kept  repeating, '  Forever  and  ever,  Amen.' 

"  At  first  I  did  not  think  she  did  it.  I  had  requested 
her  mother  to  bring  me  some  specimens  of  her  writing. 
It  was  a  fine,  sloping,  Italian  hand,  while  these   sen- 


302  A   So7i  of  Old  Harry. 

tences  were  written  in  a  strong,  heavy,  almost  mascu- 
line, back-hand.  We  had  left  pencils  about  the  room, 
for  she  was  so  quiet  and  lady-like,  that  she  had  a  nice 
room  to  herself,  just  to  tempt  her  memory,  so  to  speak. 
She  never  touched  one  while  awake,  but  when  asleep, 
as  we  found  by  watching,  she  would  get  up  and  write 
these  sentences,  and  very  often  hide  them  somewhere 
about  the  room  or  bed.     Queer,  wasn't  it  ?" 

"Very,"  answered  the  young  man,  hoarsely.  The 
surgeon  did  not  notice  the  pallor  of  the  face  now  wholly 
turned  toward  the  wall.  • 

'*  That  is  the  curious  thing  about  the  insane.  No  two 
of  them  are  alike.  Each  one  is  an  independent  puzzle 
that  has  to  be  solved  on  its  own  combination,  if  at  all. 
Well,  I  tried  for  weeks  to  get  a  clue — find  the  key  to 
that  girl's  intelligence — but  I  couldn't  do  it.  Finally  I 
concluded  that  her  mind  was  just  a  blank.  All  the 
impressions  that  had  been  made  on  it  had  been  rubbed 
oif .  It  was  still  receptive — weakly  so  it  is  true,  and  not 
at  all  retentive — but  after  awhile  she  learned  to  repeat 
words  ;  forgetting  them,  however,  in  a  moment.  Then 
she  began  to  notice  what  happened  about  her  ;  a  change 
of  nurses  annoyed  her — and  one  thing  after  another  was 
done  to  awaken,  not  her  former  life  and  thought — that 
was  dead — irretrievably  dead — but  to  establish  a  new 
intelligence.  Curiously  enough,  the  first  word  she 
repeated  with  any  show  of  comprehension  was  'horse.' 
She  was  very  fond  of  being  driven  and  even  riding 
horseback,  for  which  she  seemed  to  have  a  natural  apti- 
tude. Almost  the  first  thing  she  did  showing  connected 
thought  was  to  don  her  riding-habit,  when  she  saw  a 
horse  with  a  side-saddle  on  it,  standing  at  the  gate. 
After  a  while  she  spent  half  her  time  almost  in  the  sad- 
dle, and  for  that  matter,  does  so  to  this  day,  I  am  told. 
It  made  no  difference  who  rode  with  her  so  long  as  he 


Out  of  the  Darkness,  303 

was  well-dressed  and  had  a  good  horse.  If  he  had  not, 
she  would  attach  herself  to  the  first  gentleman  rider  she 
met  possessing  these  qualities.  It  seemed  to  mate  her 
angry  to  meet  another  lady  riding  with  a  gentleman, 
and  she  sometimes  behaved  badly  on  such  occasions. 

"  As  soon  as  we  found  this  key  to  her  intelligence, 
however,  she  improved  very  rapidly.  She  learned  to 
speak  and  to  write  in  a  few  weeks,  speaking  and  writing 
exactly  like  her  preceptors.  After  six  months  she  was 
discharged,  cured  ;  that  is,  she  was  reasonably  intelli- 
gent and  fairly  sane,  but  she  had  not  recovered,  and 
never  will  recover,  any  hint  of  her  former  life.  She 
learned  to  say  *  father'  and  '  mother,'  for  instance,  but 
has  never  showed  any  affection  for  either.  Instead  of 
that,  I  and  my  wife  are  the  real  parents  of  her  new  life 
— her  new  intelligence.  She  has  had  one  or  two  partial 
relapses — probably  always  will  have  them,  now  and 
then — but  a  week  or  a  fortnight  at  the  institution  fully 
restores  her. 

"  She  was  married  along  in  the  fall — last  fall,  that  is. 
I  went  home  to  the  wedding.  She  was  very  glad  to  see 
me,  took  me  all  over  the  new  house  her  father  had  built 
for  her,  and  appeared  to  be  fond  of  her  husband  ;  but  it 
seemed  to  me  to  be  rather  as  a  toy  than  anything  else. 
I  am  afraid  she  has  no  clear  comprehension  of  the  rela- 
tions between  them.  I  advised  against  the  marriage, 
but  my  wife  favored  it.  She  was  afraid  something 
might  happen  to  her,  you  know,  and  I  suppose  it  was 
best.  1  should  be  afraid  of  trouble  if  that  old  life  should 
ever  come  back — but  it  never  will.  Her  husband  is  a 
very  good  man,  considerably  older  than  she,  and  as 
gentle  with  her  as  if  she  were  a  child.     Well,  I  must 

go-" 

"  What — did  you  say  her  name  was  ?" 

"  Cyvelia  King — but  she  named  herself  '  Weely,'  after 


304  A  ^^^^  ^f  Old  Harry. 

she  began  to  talk,  just  as  a  child  often  does,  and  is 
always  called  so  by  her  friends.  By  the  way,  her  father, 
Marshall  King — is  with  the  army  here.  He  is  a  very 
pushing  man,  and  has  done  an  enormous  business  buying 
cotton.  Perhaps  you  have  met  him,  being  in  the  cav- 
alry— they  say  he  keeps  about  half  the  cavalry  of  this 
army  scouting  after  cotton.  You  know  there  is  one  regi- 
ment they  call  '  King's  body-guard.'  " 

"Yes;  I've  heard  of  it.  What  kind  of  a  looking  girl 
— ^lady,  I  mean — was  this — your  patient  ?" 

"  Can't  help  thinking  about  her,  eh  ?  Well,  I'm  glad 
to  give  you  something  to  think  about,  besides  yourself, 
and  this  was  a  queer  case.  Lucky  I've  got  her  picture, 
for  I  couldn't  ever  make  any  headway  describing  a 
woman.  My  wife  says,  that  if  she  should  ever  get  lost 
I  would  have  to  get  somebody  to  write  out  a  description, 
if  I  wanted  to  advertise  her.  There  she  is — don't  look 
as  if  she  had  lost  any  of  her  wits,  does  she  ?" 

He  opened  a  small  ambrotype  case,  which  he  took 
from  his  pocket,  as  he  spoke,  brushed  the  dust  off  it  and 
handed  it  to  his  patient.  The  young  man  raised  him- 
self on  his  elbow  to  look  at  it,  but  instantly  fell  back,  and 
the  case  would  have  fallen  to  the  floor  had  not  the  sur- 
geon caught  it. 

"  Hellow  !  You  musn't  risk  such  sudden  changes  of 
position,"  he  exclaimed.  "  Here,  take  this."  He 
pressed  a  glass  to  the  chattering  teeth  and  white  lips  of 
the  young  man.  "  That  was  too  much  exertion  after 
my  long  talk.  I  must  go  now,  and  you  must  keep  very 
quiet.     Shall  I  send  Miss  Parker  to  you  ?" 

"  I  suppose  you  may  as  well,"  came  faintly  from  the 
pallid  lips. 

"  You — ^you  will  be  quiet  and — and  kind  to  her  ?" 

"  Certainly — of  course," 

"  That's  right." 


hi  the   Toils  of  Destiny.  305 

The  surgeon  bustled  away,  and  after  a  few  moments 
Kitty  Parker  entered.  Tears  sprang  to  her  eyes  as  she 
saw  a  look  of  recognition  in  his  eyes,  and  clasping  the 
hand  he  feebly  raised  from  the  coverlet  in  both  her  own, 
she  knelt  beside  the  couch  and  covered  it  with  tender 
kisses. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


IN    THE    TOILS   OF    DESTINY. 


What  a  mocker  is  Fate  !  Hubert  Goodwin  would 
willingly  have  doomed  himself  to  celibacy,  with  only 
the  memory  of  love  to  cheer  his  loneliness.  He  was  not 
romantic  or  sentimental.  It  was  with  him  as  much  a 
matter  of  course  that  he  should  love  Delia  Kincaid  as 
that  he  should  live ;  and  having  once  loved  her,  he 
could  never  cease  to  love  her.  Until  this  moment,  it 
had  never  once  crossed  his  mind  that  he  could  ever  seem 
to  love  another  ;  but  he  was  human,  and  in  a  sense  fond  of 
the  charming  girl  who  knelt  beside  his  couch.  He  had 
written  to  her,  now  and  then,  bright,  breezy  letters  full 
of  the  camp  and  the  march — the  glamour  and  the  charm 
of  the  soldier's  life.  He  had  not  thoiight  of  love,  nor 
dreamed  that  he  had  inspired  it.  Kitty  Parker  was 
bright,  piquant,  ardent ;  not  st)  intellectual  as  his  old 
playmate,  but  intelligent  and  accomplished — fitted  to 
adorn  any  position.  That  was  his  estimate  of  her 
character.  In  appearance  she  was  not  less  attractive, 
if  estimated  by  ordinary  standards.  He  had  never 
thought    of  instituting   a  comparison    between  them. 


3o6  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

The  one  he  loved  ;  the  other  he  liked.  That  was  all 
there  was  of  the  matter. 

What  is  it  that  makes  one  nature  or  one  type  harmo- 
nize so  unmistakably  with  another  ?  With  Delia 
Kincaid,  Hubert  Goodwin  always  felt  himself  at  ease. 
She  seemed  a  part  of  himself.  But  this  other,  not  less 
beautiful,  whose  attractions  he  confessed,  whom  he 
respected  and  admired  and  whose  love  had  unwittingly 
revealed  itself — this  woman  to  whom  he  owed  so  much 
— it  was  very  different  with  her.  The  touch  of  her  lips 
upon  his  hand  was  unfamiliar.  Her  kisses  were  hot 
and  tremulous  ;  her  tears  annoyed  him.  He  confessed 
that  the  bowed  head  was  shapely,  but  could  he  ever 
fondle  those  dark  shining  locks  ?  How  the  pale  golden 
tresses  blinded  his  eyes  !  This  flushed  cheek,  the  shell- 
like ear,  the  slender  neck,  round  and  firm,  with  its 
graceful  arch — they  were  all  beautiful — but  they  were 
not  his.  He  would  have  felt  no  pang  in  yielding  them 
to  another  ;  nay,  he  would  have  deemed  another  fortu- 
nate in  their  possession.  He  even  counted  it  a  misfor- 
tune that  Fate  had  mocked  him,  in  the  very  hour  of  his 
bereavement,  with  a  love  so  pure  in  a  shrine  so  fair. 

He  knew  it  was  Fate,  however.  His  love  was  not 
only  his  no  more,  but  his  very  image  had  been  blotted 
from  her  memory.  She  had  repeated  his  name — only 
mechanically,  however  ;  it  brought  no  picture  to  her 
consciousness.  She  was  lost — dead.  He  was  glad  it 
was  so,  if  he  must  lose  her.  It  would  have  killed  him 
to  think  that  she  was  false,  "  Forever  and  ever  "  had 
been  no  light  vow  to  him.  Why  had  she  been  given  to 
another  ?  Even  if  the  soul  had  fled,  he  would  hav€ 
cherished  the  precious  casket  it  once  informed,  with  a 
love  as  tender  as  when  he  sealed  it  with  boy-kisses  on 
her  child-lips.  He  flushed  hot  with  anger  at  the  thought 
that  another  hand  had    profaned  its  sanctuary  with 


\  In  the   Toils  of  Destiny.  307 

caresses.  But  why  should  he  dwell  upon  it  ?  Her  love 
was  dead — its  very  ashes  scattered  on  the  winds  of 
oblivion.  And  life,  harsh  and  real,  was  before  him. 
Fate  was  inexorable.  Honor  and  gratitude  alike 
demanded  that  he  should  not  spurn  the  precious  spike- 
nard this  fair  girl  had  lavished  on  his  insensate  form. 
He  could  not  shame  the  love  which  had  thus  unwittingly 
revealed  itself.  He  knew  that  his  fate  was  sealed  even 
while  he  rebelled  against  it, 

"  You  will  forgive  me — won't  you  ?"  she  asked  at 
length,  lifting  her  eyes  to  his  face. 

"  For  what  ?     For  saving  my  life  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  save  it ;  Doctor  Talcott  did  that  ;  for 
not  sending  for  your  mother  sooner  ?" 

"  Why  should  you  ?" 

"Oh,  I  ought ;  I  know  I  ought.  What  will  she  think 
of  me  ?  But  I — I  did  not  want  to  go  away.  It  seemed 
as  if  I  had  a  right  to  stay — when  I  found  you  after 
everybody  else  had  given  you  up," 

"  So  you  had,"  solemnly. 

The  girl  hushed  her  sobbing,  and  her  breath  came  in 
short,  quick  gasps.  What  did  his  words  mean — no, 
not  the  words,  the  tone  ? 

She  turned  her  cheek  away,  that  he  should  not  see 
the  hot  blood  leap  up  in  joyful  answer  to  his  summons, 

*'  Kitty !" 

"  Well  ?"  softly,  doubtfully.  She  held  her  breath  for 
his  response. 

"  You  will  not  go  away  ?" 

Not  go  away  ?  Did  he  mean — much  or  little  ?  Did 
he  want  a  wife — or  a  nurse  ?  She  could  not  tell.  What 
did  it  matter  ?  She  had  shown  this  man  her  love.  She 
had  broken  the  alabaster  box  upon  his  feet  and  wiped 
them  with  her  hair.  He  was  her  lord  by  open  confes- 
sion.    Why  should  she  question  whether  he  asked  much 


3o8  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

or  little  ?  If  he  desired  her  life,  it  was  his  ;  if  only  her 
services,  why  should  she  refuse  a  part,  having  freely 
given  the  whole  ?  So  the  hot,  flushed  face  was  lifted, 
the  tearful  eyes  sought  his,  and  she  answered,  with  bit- 
ter but  entire  self-abnegation  : 

"  Not  if  you  wish  me  to  remain," 

"  I  do." 

It  was  like  an  order  given  to  one  of  his  soldiers,  and 
like  a  soldier — none  was  ever  braver — she  bowed  her 
head  in  acquiescence  ;  bowed  it  upon  the  hand  she  held, 
her  face  turned  away  from  his  gaze.  Who  shall  tell  her 
disappointment  ?  She  had  hoped — ah,  for  what  had  she 
not  hoped  ?  Love — passion  ?  Why  not  ?  She  had 
deserved  all  that  man  might  give.  Gratitude  was  the 
least  she  could  expect.  And  he  was  cold — so  cold ! 
The  hand  she  held  lay  inert  as  death  in  her  fervid 
clasp.  He  had  asked  her  to  remain — to  sacrifice  her- 
self— her  maiden  pride  for  him — almost  as  if  perform- 
ing an  unpleasant  task.  When  she  looked  into  his  face 
there  was  no  more  trace  of  emotion  there  than  in  the 
sculptured  features  of  the  Sphinx.  But  he  was  not 
himself;  he  was  sick,  weak.  No  matter.  She  had 
given  all  when  she  hoped  for  no  return  ;  why  should 
she  shrink  now  that  her  expectations  were  but  half  ful- 
filled .'  She  would  stay  ;  she  would  at  least  be  near  him 
until  his  mother  came.  That  would  be  one,  two — per- 
haps three  days.     After  that — 

It  was  needless  to  formulate  the  alternative.  Even 
while  she  knelt  beside  him  Fate  was  busy  forging  the 
links  that  were  to  bind  them  together.  A  press  corres- 
pondent, one  of  that  host  of  imaginative  news-gatherers 
who  follow  in  an  army's  track,  easily  wormed  out  of  the 
elate  and  kindly  surgeon  the  story  of  his  favorite  pa- 
tient's recovery,  to  which  he   added  a  pretty  tale  of 


In  the    Toils  of  Destiny.  309 

woman's  love — a  story  which  outAives  all  other  phases 
of  human  experience  in  universal  and  perennial  charm. 
The  correspondent  did  not,  of  course,  reveal  the 
lady's  name,  but  in  announcing  the  discovery  and  con- 
valescence of  a  gallant  officer  who  had  been  mourned 
as  dead,  he  painted  as  sweet  a  romance  as  was  ever  hung 
on  the  ferruginous  front  of  war.  The  news  of  Hubert 
Goodwin's  recovery,  and  of  the  devotion  of  the  young 
lady  whose  love  would  not  let  her  believe  hini  dead, 
went  out  to  the  world  together.  There  was  no  longer 
any  other  course  for  him  to  pursue.  If  Delia  Kincaid 
were  to  come  to-morrow,  an  unwed  maiden,  to  ask  ful- 
fillment of  his  vow,  he  must  in  honor  offer  name  and 
hand  to  the  woman  whose  heart  would  not  rest  upon 
uncertainties  in  respect  to  his  fate.  His  love  he  could 
not  give  her — he  had  none  to  bestow.  He  did  not  hes- 
itate— but  told  her  the  truth,  and  asked  her  to  be  his 
wife.  As  before,  she  answered  his  request  with  the 
lifeless  formula  of  self-surrender  :. 

"If  you  wish  it — to  be  so," 

There  was  no  elation,  no  tender  exultation  in  her 
tone.  She  had  longed  for  love,  and  her  hunger  was 
unappeased.  Under  other  circumstances,  she  would 
not  have  accepted  an  empty  hand — a  hand  without  a 
heart — but  she,  too,  was  bound  by  Fate.  Her  secret  had 
been  wrung  from  her  and  published  to  the  world.  To 
refuse  was  not  only  to  proclaim  herself  discarded,  but 
to  stain  the  name  of  one  whose  honor  was  dearer  to  her 
than  life.  So,  on  the  heels  of  the  story  of  their  love,  came 
the  announcement  of  their  marriage. 

Three  months*  leave  of  absence  was  granted  the 
young  soldier.  When  it  had  expired,  he  was  ready  for 
duty  in  his  new  station.  Just  before  his  departure,  his 
Tincle  said  to  him  one  morning,  as  they  sat  under  the 


3IO  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

great  elm  in  front*  of  the  new  mansion,  which  had 
replaced  the  old  house  : 

'*  Do  you  know,  I  believe  I  have  solved  the  mystery 
of  your  getting  off  the  field  that  night  ?  It  flashed  into 
my  head  as  soon  as  I  heard  the  doctor  tell  about  your 
whistling  my  old  call.  What  is  my  theory  ?  You  read 
this,  I  suppose,  when  it  came  out  ?" 

He  handed  his  listener  a  newspaper  clipping,  worn 
and  soiled,  as  he  spoke  : 

"  The  lovers  of  good  horse-flesh  will  regret  to  learn 
that  the  noted  horse,  Belmont's  Abdallah,  was  stolen 
from  the  premises  of  his  owner,  Mr,  James  Mosely,  on 
Wednesday  night,  by  a  squad  of  men  claiming  to  be 
Confederate  soldiers.  As  Mr.  Mosely's  Union  procli- 
vities are  well  known,  this  claim  would  naturally  be 
made  by  any  company  of  bushwhackers  who  might  see 
fit  to  plunder  his  stables.  He  has  often  been  warned 
that  it  was  folly  to  keep  such  valuable  stock  on  disputed 
territory,  but  until  the  present  advance  of  Bragg's  forces, 
his.property  has  been  undisturbed." 

**Yes,  I  saw  it,"  answered  the  young  olflcer  ;  "  and 
during  Bragg's  retreat,  while  we  were  scouting  in  his 
rear,  I  kept  my  ears  open  for  any  rumor  as  to  Abdallah 's 
whereabouts.  In  fact,  I  rode  twenty  miles  one  night 
on  a  false  report  that  he  was  *  hidden  out '  at  a  place  in 
the  *  knob  country,'  east  of  Lebanon,  but  found  no  trace 
of  him." 

"  Well,  I  have,  or  rather  Lieutenant  Barclay  has," 
answered  the  uncle.  "  By  the  way,  I  am  glad  you  pro- 
moted Chris.  I  tried  to  keep  him  from  going  as  an 
enlisted  man  at  all.  He  might  have  had  a  commission 
at  the  start  as  well  as  not  ;  but  he  was  over-modest, 
and  besides,  had  his  heart  set  on  going  with  you.     He 


In  the   Toils  of  Destiny.  311 

wanted  to  be  a  farrier,  too.  He  is  proud  of  his  ability 
to  shoe  a  horse,  you  know,  and  really  thought  he  could 
do  the  country  more  good  by  using  that  knowledge 
than  in  any  other  way." 

"  With  good  reason,  too.  I  hesitated  about  promoting 
him  on  that  account,  but  it  has  proved  to  be  sound 
policy.  Half  the  efficiency  of  the  regiment  is  due  to  the 
fact  that  he  has  been  permanently  detailed  to  look  after 
the  horses'  hoofs.  We  rarely  have  one  go  lame  on  the 
march  now.  There  was  some  murmuring  when  I  gave 
him  a  first  lieutenancy  and  detailed  him  as  inspector  of 
horses,  but  every  one  soon  recognized  its  wisdom.  If  I 
get  a  cavalry  brigade,  as  I  hope  I  may,  I  shall  take  him 
with  me." 

"  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  Chris  got  word  from  some 
prisoners  that  a  horse  of  Abdallah's  description,  belong- 
ing to  the  colonel  of  the  Second  Kentucky  Confederate 
Infantry,  which  was  one  of  the  regiments  guarding  the 
bridge  where  you  made  your  charge,  broke  away  and 
came  over  to  our  side  that  night.  They  spoke  of  it  as 
a  good  joke  on  the  colonel,  who  had  bought  the  horse  of 
some  bushwhackers  up  in  Kentucky.  They  said  he  evi- 
dently disliked  the  Rebel  service,  and  made  a  break  for 
the  Union  lines.  Now  you  see  how  it  all  happened  ; 
you  were  delirious  and  took  to  whistling  our  old  call  ; 
he  heard  it  and  answered  ;  you  clambered  up  on  him 
and  he  brought  you  inside  the  lines." 

*'  Seems  very  probable." 

"  Oh,  there's  no  doubt  about  it,  Tne  horse  that 
brought  you  in  was  a  bay — that's  about  all  that  could 
be  learned  about  him  from  the  regiment  whose  lines 
you  entered,  except  that  he  was  taken  possession  of  by 
an  officer  who  was  shot  the  next  day." 

"  And  that  was  the  last  of  him  ?" 

"  Hardly  ;  just  after  the  battle  there  was  a  big  cock- 


312  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

and-bull  story  in  the  papers  about  Mr.  Marshall  King — 
that's  the  new  name  of  our  old  friend  of  the  Corners, 
you  know — who  was  acting  as  a  volunteer  aide  on  some- 
body's staff,  being  taken  prisoner  during  the  second 
day's  fight,  and  getting  away  and  coming  back  into  our 
lines  on  a  Confederate  officer's  horse,  which  he  had  cap- 
tured. Of  course,  King  Marsh  or  Marsh  King,  which- 
ever he  calls  himself,  is  a  good  deal  of  a  man,  there's  no 
mistake  about  that,  and  under  such  circumstances 
would  probably  take  considerable  risk.  The  Confeder- 
ates are  not  partial  to  men  of  his  stamp — cotton-thieves, 
as  they  call  them — but  such  a  feat  is  easier  imagined 
than  performed,  I  fancy,  and  we  know  he  has  a  very 
able-bodied  imagination.  Of  course,  if  it  was  a  fact,  I 
take  it  he'd  have  got  a  commission  before  this  time — 
though,  perhaps,  he  don't  want  it — more  money  in  cot- 
ton, I  s'pose.  But  I  ran  across  something  this  morning 
which  shed  some  new  light  on  the  matter." 

He  handed  the  other  a  newspaper,  and  pointed  to  a 
brief  paragraph  as  he  spoke  : 

"  The  splendid  stallion  which  was  captured  by  Mr. 
Marshall  King  at  Stone  River  has  been  sold  to  Mr. 
Stokes,  of  St.  Louis,  who  will  put  him  on  a  horse  ranch 
he  is  just  starting  in  Colorado.  The  price  paid  is  said 
to  have  been  a  fancy  one,  it  being  the  general  belief 
that  the  horse  is  one  oi  the  most  noted  of  trotting  sires. 
The  West  is  to  be  congratulated  upon  his  accession,  and 
it  is  quite  possible  that  it  may  fall  to  the  lot  of  his 
progeny  to  justify  the  prediction  so  often  made  by  horse- 
men, that  the  greatest  trotters  of  the  world  will  be  bred 
in  a  high  altitude  and  a  dry  climate." 

"  It's  my  notion  that's  our  old  Abdallah." 
"I  rather  think  it  is." 


Caught  by  the   Undertow.  313 

"  Kincaid  got  him  after  all,  it  seems,  if  he  did  have 
to  steal  him  twice.  I  was  mighty  sorry  for  you,  of 
course,"  continued  the  uncle,  with  an*affectionate  look 
at  his  companion,  "  but  I'm  glad  now  you  didn't  marry 
into  that  family.  Dee  was  well  enough,  but — why, 
what's  the  matter  ?" 

The  young  man  had  grown  suddenly  pale,  reeled  in 
his  chair,  and  muttered  brokenly  : 

"  Forever  and  ever  !" 

"  I  declare,  it's  his  old  hurt !  Susan  !  Kitty  !  Come 
here,  quick  !" 

They  found  Horace  Goodwin  supporting  his  n  ephew's 
head,  while  the  young  soldier's  eyes  glared  wildly  down 
the  road,  and  his  white  lips  repeated  over  and  over  : 
"Forever  and  ever,  amen  !"  But  no  one  thought  of 
connecting  these  words  with  the  vision  of  a  girlish 
figure  on  a  black  pony,  which  had  flashed  across  his 
memory  and  made  the  man  a  boy  again. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


CAUGHT    BY    THE    UNDERTOW. 


The  close  of  the  war  left  Hubert  Goodwin,  like 
many  others,  in  a  most  unpleasant  position.  Before 
reaching  his  prime  he  had  won  high  honors  in  a  profes- 
sion he  must  now  renounce.  What  should  he  do  ? 
The  American  had  not  then  learned  to  loiter.  The 
impulse  to  achieve  was  then  the  controlling  force  in 
every  life,  and  the  young  soldier  felt  the  full  strength 
of  that  restless  desire  for  achievement  which  has  built 
up  an   empire  within  a  possible  lifetime.     Strangely 


314  -^  <Son  of  Old  Harry. 

enough,  he  found  the  avenues  of  business  almost  closed 
against  him.  He  was  not  only  a  distinguished  soldier, 
but  a  young  one.  People  thought  the  qualities  which 
had  given  him  success  in  the  field  would  militate  against 
him  in  civil  life.  He  had  no  aptitude  for  politics,  no 
desire  for  a  professional  career.  He  had  capital,  energy, 
confidence,  luck,  so  it  was  said,  so  the  past  had  proved , 
but  no  one  wished  to  venture  with  him.  Even  Sedley 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  his  old  offer.  Perhaps  there 
was  something  of  envy  in  it.  It  was  not  pleasant  to 
know  that  the  "  Sedley  Legion  "  had  been  almost  for- 
gotten, and  that  the  young  soldier,  whose  feet  he  had 
set  so  high  upon  the  ladder  of  preferment  at  the  outset, 
had  gone  on  climbing  up  without  his  assistance  until 
his  fame  overshadowed  his  patron's.  He  had  hardly 
grown  a  fair  mustache  when  a  colonel's  eagles  graced 
his  shoulders,  and  the  corps,  which  Sedley  had  created, 
began  to  be  known  as  "  Goodwin's  regiment."  Nobody 
thought  of  it  as  anything  else,  now.  It  was  known  only 
by  that  and  its  number.  Only  by  a  careful  scrutiny  of 
the  records  could  one  learn  who  had  organized  and 
equipped  it. 

Hubert  Goodwin  had  seen  little  of  the  wife  whom  Fate 
had  given  him  since  their  marriage,  but  he  had  given 
her  the  key  of  his  purse  and  she  had  used  her  privilege 
thriftily  in  his  absence.  A  charming  home  awaited  him 
on  his  return.  His  family  had  taken  the  brave  young 
wife  into  especial  favor.  His  mother,  resenting,  as  any 
mother  would,  what  she  considered  the  perfidy  of  his 
first  love,  had  given  even  more  than  a  daughter's  place 
to  the  wife  whom  she  realized  instinctively  had  less 
than  her  due  share  of  a  husband's  affection.  She  felt 
that  in  his  years  of  service  her  son  had  thought  more  of 
the  love  he  had  lost  than  of  the  wife  he  had  won  ;  but 
she  did  not  know  how,  in  the  strange  seclusion  which 


Caught  by  the   Undertow.  315 

the  camp  brings,  he  had  turned  again  toward  that 
dream  of  the  past.  Closely  associated  with  Doctor 
Talcott,  he  had  learned  through  the  letters  of  the  sur- 
geon's wife  everything  that  had  happened  to  her  ;  how 
she  had  grown  petulant,  morose,  and  finally  so  violently 
antipathetic  to  both  her  husband  and  her  parents  that 
she  had  come  to  the  physician's  house  and  refused  to 
return  or  hold  any  communication  with  her  relatives. 
She  was  quieter  there,  but  took  no  interest  in  public 
affairs  and  showed  no  memory  of  her  former  life.  She 
wandered  in  the  grove  near  the  house,  rode  her  horse, 
and  seemed  to  have  no  thought  of  the  present  and  no 
care  for  the  future.  She  would  allow  herself  to  be 
called  by  no  name  except  "  Weely,"  which  she  often 
repeated  over  and  over  to  herself  for  some  minutes  at  a 
time,  with  a  vague,  puzzled  expression  that  was  new  to 
her.  The  only  attention  she  paid  to  the  announcement 
that  her  husband  had  been  elected  to  Congress  was  to 
remark  that  she  was  glad  of  it,  if  it  would  keep  him 
away  from  her. 

Dr.  Talcott  would  say,  after  each  of  these  letters  : 

"  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  I  am  afraid  she  will  recover. 
That  would  make  trouble.  You  see,  her  marriage  was 
not  really  an  act  of  her  volition.  The  woman  who 
assented  to  the  marital  obligation  was  quite  another 
person — a  different  consciousness  from  that  which  once 
dominated  her  nature.  It  seems  as  if  the  brain  was 
slowly  drifting  back  to  its  normal  condition.  If  it 
ever  reaches  it,  all  that  has  intervened  will  be  as  blank 
to  her  as  her  former  life  is  now." 

The  kind  surgeon  did  not  know  that  this  was  rank 
poison  to  the  soul  which  had  pledged  itself,  '*  Forever 
and  ever,"  to  that  clouded  consciousness. 

Each  day  since  his  return  had  driven  home  to  the 
heart  of  Hubert  Goodwin,  more  clearly  than  ever  before, 


3i6  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

the  terrible  fact  that  he  did  not  love  his  own  wife,  bnt 
did  love  another's  with  a  fervency  which  time  could  not 
abate  nor  absence  dull.  Long  before,  he  had  arrived  at 
the  conclusion  that  his  marriage  was  wrong,  a  sin,  al- 
most a  crime — not  against  her  he  had  married,  but 
against  the  other,  whom  he  might  not  marry — that  love 
who  was  dead  and  yet  alive.  He  had  even  begun  to 
consider  whether  there  was  not  some  way  by  which  he 
might  remedy  the  wrong.  If  he  could  only  take  the 
poor,  stricken  life  he  loved  away  from  her  cruel  sur- 
roundings, he  was  sure  he  could  make  her  happy.  He 
did  not  wish  to  do  wrong,  and  he  would  not  sully  her 
white,  half  consciousness  even  with  the  shadow  of  shame. 
If  he  could  only  be  with  her,  soothe,  protect,  cheer  her 
as  if  she  were  his  sister  !  Ah,  he  would  willingly  sub- 
ordinate himself — eliminate,  eradicate  himself — to  give 
happiness,  repose,  content  to  the  shattered  life  he  loved  ! 
It  was  a  dangerous  mood  for  such  a  compound  of  con- 
science and  recklessness  as  the  son  of  Theophilus  and 
Old  Harry. 

For  a  brief  time  the  bright,  sunny  home  dissipated 
such  fancies.  Kittie  Goodwin  did  not  understand  her 
husband.  Why  should  she  ?  He  did  not  understand 
himself.  She  feared  he  would  be  lonely  after  the  tur- 
moil of  the  camp,  not  knowing  that  among  the  multi- 
tude of  other  men-  the  individual  man  is  lonelier  than 
anywhere  else.  He  has  then  no  one  to  come  near  his 
heart ;  no  one  to  share  his  life  and  thought.  A  man 
dwells  always  in  a  zone  which  only  a  woman  can  enter. 
Mother,  sister,  sweetheart,  wife,  daughter,  friend — some 
relation  there  must  be  which  brings  the  complement  of 
manhood  to  his  side,  or  man  lives  essentially  alone. 
Only  rarely  do  two  men  become  so  attached  that  each 
desires  the  constant  companionship  of  the  other.  They 
are  naturally  repellant  poles.     Cast  away  upon  a  desert 


Caught  by  the   Undertow,  317 

island  or  frozen  in  upon  a  polar  sea,  they  become  sus- 
picious, resentful,  hostile.  If  one  is  strong  and  the  other 
weak  ;  if  one  demands  and  the  other  affords  protection 
and  support,  the  mutual  aversion  may  be  subordinated 
to  this  need  ;  but  if  both  are  strong,  safety  can  be  found 
only  in  separation — mutual  isolation 

It  is  not  so  with  woman.  Isolation  is  death  to  her. 
Left  alone,  she  loses  her  womanhood ;  becomes  coarse 
and  masculine  in  appearance  and  character.  Thrown 
near  another  life,  she  gravitates  toward  it  by  irresistible 
attraction.  If  any  insurmountable  barrier  prevents  inti- 
mate association  with  man,  she  turns  to  her  own  sex  for 
companionship.  She  is  never  recluse  from  preference. 
She  does  not  think  out  the  puzzles  of  life  alone,  but  feels 
them  out  with  another,  or  with  another  submits  to  them. 
So  this  young  wife,  to  cure  her  husband's  loneliness,  as 
she  thought,  surrounded  him  with  cheerful  society.  For 
this  she  had  planned  during  his  absence ;  on  this  she 
relied  to  keep  him  near  her  and  win  him  nearer.  The 
new  home  was  full  of  light  and  revelry.  The  famous 
young  soldier  and  his  beautiful  bride  made  a  center 
around  which  society  in  those  days  of  triumph  and  re- 
joicing clustered  as  naturally  as  filings  about  a  magnet. 
She  was  trying  to  please,  to  divert  him — to  keep  him 
from  thinking  of  himself  or  that  shadow  which  she  knew 
hung  over  his  consciousness,  the  result  of  his  wound.  It 
was  a  sweet,  womanly  effort.  She  endeavored  to  make 
his  wealth,  his  fame,  her  beauty  and  attractiveness  min- 
ister to  his  happiness,  and  hoped  thereby  to  win  his  love. 

Ah,  if  she  had  only  known — what  woman  can  never 
know — the  heart  of  man,  she  would  have  taken  a  differ- 
ent course.  She  would  have  realized  that  the  gratifica- 
tion of  all  a  man's  desires  is  the  surest  road  to  discon. 
tent ;  that  it  is  only  struggle  and  the  need  for  struggle 
that  keep  him  on  an  even  keel.     He  must  be  doing  for 


3i8  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

himself  or  another,  or  he  rusts,  retrogrades,  becomes  de- 
moralized. If  she  had  applied  the  torch  to  the  beautiful 
home  ;  if,  instead  of  self-helpfulness,  she  had  shown  de- 
pendency and  demanded  care,  the  result  might  have 
been  different — nay,  it  would  have  been. 

This  is  not  said  in  blame.  Save  himself  and  his  fate, 
Hubert  Goodwin  had  no  one  to  blame  for  his  acts  or 
their  consequences  ;  it  may,  perhaps,  be  said  in  mitiga- 
tion of  the  condemnation  heaped  upon  him  that  he 
blamed  no  one.  If  he  had  known  his  wife's  thought,  it 
might  have  been  better  or  it  might  have  been  worse. 
As  it  was,  he  said  to  himself,  when  he  saw  the  sparkle 
in  her  eye,  the  flush  upon  her  cheek  and  the  thrill  of 
happiness  echoing  through  her  tones  : 

"  This  is  her  life.  How  happy  she  is  !  I  am  the 
only  blot  on  the  white  page.  I  am  deceiving  her. 
These  things  give  me  no  pleasure  ;  but  she  thinks  I 
enjoy  them.  I  am  wronging  her  by  the  pretense  of 
happiness.  She  thinks  me  content ;  she  believes  that  I 
love  her  as  she  deserves  to  be  loved.  I  do  not ;  I  can- 
not !" 

Ah,  if  there  had  come  to  him  then  the  need  of  great 
exertion  !  But  Fate  will  not  be  cheated.  While  he 
waited,  heart-sick  and  wistful,  seeking  opportunity,  his 
strength  panting  for  demand  upon  its  potency,  the  day 
of  subtle  and  irresistible  temptation  was  approaching. 

At  the  close  of  the  war,  Horace  Goodwin,  with  justi- 
fiable pride  in  his  success,  had  said  to  his  nephew  : 

"  There  is  no  need  for  you  to  take  any  thought  for 
the  morrow.  Here  is  the  result  of  our  joint  ven- 
ture." 

Then  he  made  a  report  of  his  acquisition,  and  apprais- 
ing everything  at  a  just  value,  divided  it  in  twain,  and 
deducting  only  what  he  had  paid  on  the  other's  account, 
he  handed  to  the  silent  partner  in  his  enterprise — on© 


Caught  by  the   Under toz,^ .  319 

moiety  of  the  proceeds.  It  was  a  tin  box  full  of 
government  securities.  The  young  man  turned  them 
over  curiously.  He  had  known  little  of  the  financial 
struggle  by  which  the  armies  were  supplied  and  the 
nation  saved  ;  so  that  these  crackling  sheets  of  paper, 
with  their  green  lettering,  intricately  ruled  ornament- 
ation and  plentitude  of  blood-red  seals,  as  if  a  soldier's 
life  were  the  guarantee  of  each  promise  which  the 
nation  made  to  pay  for  her  deliverance,  were  to  him  a 
strange  mystery. 

"All  you  have  to  do,"  continued  the  proud  uncle,  as 
he  showed  the  result  of  his  sagacious  foresight,  "  is  to 
turn  the  key  on  those  bonds — ^make  a  special  deposit 
where  they  will  be  safe  ;  use  the  interest  as  you  may 
desire,  and  their  appreciation  alone  will  give  you 
a  greater  profit  than  most  business  ventures  can  be 
made  to  yield.  I  hope  you  are  satisfied  with  my 
stewardship  ?" 

*'  Satisfied  !"  was  the  hearty  response,  **  I  should  be 
most  unreasonable  if  I  were  not.  But  you  are  unjust  ,• 
you  have  taken  nothing  for  your  expense — your  care 
and  watchfulness." 

"  There  you  are  wrong.  Do  you  not  see  that  what 
we  have  expended  is  not  in  the  aggregate  ;  it  has  been 
consumed.  I  have  charged  you  with  your  expenses  up 
to  the  time  you  entered  the  service,  and  thought,  as 
they  then  ceased,  I  ought  to  charge  myself  with  our 
own,  but  your  mother  said  she  was  sure  you  would  not 
allow  it." 

"  Nor  would  I." 

"  Well,  I  am  satisfied  if  you  are  ;  there  is  enough  for  all 
of  us  ;  though  I  expect  to  make  something  more  for 
the  little  ones  now  and  then,  as  opportunity  offers. 
Making  money  has  become  a  habit,  you  see.  You  do 
not  think  I  have  been  so  bad  a  step-father,  Hubert  ?" 


320  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

The  young  man  silently  reached  forth  his  hand. 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  not  sorry  for  having  followed 
my  advice.  I  was  not  at  all  sure  I  was  right,  but  I 
tried  to  do  what  I  thought  Seth  would  approve.  I  only 
thought  of  you  and  your  mother  ;  and  she  only  thought 
of  you.  I  don't  think  you  at  all  realize  how  closely  she 
has  followed  your  steps,  and  how  proud  she  is  of  you. 
You  were  her  first  child,  and  all  she  had  to  pet  and 
care  for,  until  you  were  almost  man-grown.  Seth  didn't 
give  her  any  chance  to  show  her  love  for  him.  We  are 
a  hard  set  in  that  way,  we  Goodwins  ;  we  like  to  give, 
but  will  not  take.  When  you  went  off  to  school,  I 
thought  she  would  cry  her  eyes  out  ;  but  you  never 
seemed  to  think  she  could  be  unhappy.  I  don't  believe 
your  letters  had  a  word  of  sympathy  in  them." 

"  But  she  had  you,  lincle." 

"  Me  !  A  nice  pet  I  was,  to  be  sure  !  Of  course,  I 
loved  her — always  had,  for  that  matter,  I  believe — but 
she  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  loving  a  polar  bear. 
She  wanted  somebody  to  whose  existence  her  love  was 
a  necessity.  She  thought  it  was  to  you,  until  you  went 
away  from  her  so  contentedly.  Of  course,  the  children 
have  helped  to  console  her,  but  they  haven't  taken  your 
place — never  will.  You  are  her  child,  her  pride.  I 
really  believe  it  would  kill  her  if  anything  should  hap- 
pen to  you  ;  if  you  should  go  to  the  bad,  you  know,  as 
we're  both  likely  to,  having  the  mark." 

Horace  Goodwin  spoke  with  a  prescient  apprehension 
which  startled  his  listener. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  he  asked  after  a 
moment. 

"  I  don't — know,"  came  the  hesitant  answer. 

"  You  must  not  be  idle  ;  it  is  death  to  a  Goodwin. 
Why  don't  you  go  West  and  look  around .?" 

"  I  thi^k  I  will,"  meditatively. 


Caught  by  the   Ufidertow.  321 

Ah,  watchful  guardian,  it  was  a  cruel  thing  for  Fate 
to  make  you  the  instrument  of  woe  ! 

The  blow  came  very  soon.  The  wife  had  no  premoni- 
tion. 

One  morning,  she  found  on  her  dressing-table  a  note  : 

"  Kitty  :  I  am  going  away,  I  do  not  know  where 
nor  when  I  shall  return,  if  ever.  There  is  no  excuse 
for  the  course  I  have  taken,  and  I  cannot  hope  for  your 
forgiveness  nor  to  retain  your  respect.  Not  to  soften 
your  resentment  but  to  testify  my  regard,  I  give  you  the 
major  part  of  my  estate. 

"  Trusting  that  you  will  forget  me,  and  be  happier 
than  you  could  hope  to  be  if  I  remained,  I  bid  you  good- 
bye, "  Hubert  Goodwin." 

It  was  the  last  time  but  one  that  he  ever  subscribed 
his  name.  These  two  signatures  transformed  an  honor- 
able patronymic  into  a  blazon  of  eternal  shame. 

Upon  her  husband's  desk,  Kitty  Goodwin  found  the 
key  of  his  strong-box  and  a  deed  to  its  contents.  He 
had  taken  with  him  one-third  of  the  capital.  The  house 
was  hers.  The  deserted  wife  was  rich,  young  and  fair. 
She  did  not  know  how  soon  she  was  also  to  be  a  widow. 
She  did  not  know  that  two  days  before  there  came  a  let- 
ter from  Doctor  Talcott,  saying  :  "  The  poor  lady  whom 
you  wot  of  is  no  better.  She  wanders  about,  calling 
with  plaintive  eagerness  for  'Jack!  Jack!  Jack!' — a 
word  which  is  the  one  remembered  fact  of  a  past  she 
will  never  find  again." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

A      FORSWORN      KNIGHT. 

The  life  I  have  depicted  lies  so  far  away  from  that 
which  followed,  that  its  events  seem  to  have  occurred 
to  another.  For  this  reason,  I  have  told  them  in  the 
third  person.  Even  now,  when  my  mind  has  dwelt  for 
weeks  upon  the  retrospect,  I  can  hardly  realize  that  it 
was  I  who  bore  the  name  of  Hubert  Goodwin,  an-d  my 
wife  that  was  abandoned  in  the  pleasant  home  while  I 
sped  westward  with  only  one  thought  in  my  heart — to 
answer  that  yearning  cry  for  my  lost  love.  It  had  been 
ringing  in  my  ears  ever  since  I  read  my  friend's  letter  : 
"  Jack  !  Jack  !"  I  heard  it  every  moment,  night  and  day 
— for  I  could  not  sleep — the  throbbing  engine  called 
me  and  the  singing  rails  echoed  the  cry,  "  Jack  !  Jack  !" 

I  had  no  plan,  no  purpose,  only  to  get  to  her  side.  I 
had  acted  deliberately  from  a  dull,  stolid  conviction 
that  the  course  I  was  taking  would  separate  me  finally 
from  my  wife.  I  did  not  greatly  care,  if  it  did.  For 
myself  I  had  no  feeling  except  a  certain  sense  of  humili- 
ation. I  knew  I  was  doing  her  injustice  and  bringing 
discredit  on  myself.  These  things  I  felt  keenly.  The 
old  Goodwin  pride  was  not  dead,  thoiigh  the  terrible 
throbbing  pain  in  my  head — the  pain  which  had  always 
marked  the  spot  where  the  operation  had  been  per- 
formed— almost    drove  it  from   my  mind.     It  was  a 


A  Forsivom  Knight.  323 

strange  delusion,  but  all  the  time  I  had  the  thought 
that  if  I  could  only  find  Dee — if  I  could  once  touch  her 
hand  and  look  into  her  eyes,  she  would  know  me  ;  her 
old  life  would  come  back  and  this  terrible  depressing 
pain  would  disappear.  And  then — but  I  did  not  go 
any  farther.  I  did  not  care  to  imagine  what  might  hap- 
pen then.  So  I  fled,  sullen  and  desperate,  but  never 
once  relenting  in  my  purpose,  from  honor  to  shame — 
from  life  to  death. 

I  did  not  need  to  ask  the  way  to  Doctor  Talcott's 
when  I  left  the  train  at  Wis  wall  Station.  I  knew  he 
lived  five  miles  out  on  the  road  to  Good  Cheer,  which 
was  as  far  on  the  other  side.  His  place  was  called 
Heart's  Ease,  and  embraced  a  beautiful  lake  with  a 
romantic  wooded  outlet,  called  the  Glen.  This  property 
he  intended  to  convert  into  a  summer  resort  and  sani- 
tarium. Lying  between  two  great  lines  of  railroad,  in 
a  region  where  the  eternal  sunshine  of  the  prairie  makes 
the  relief  of  shade  and  the  music  of  falling  water  espe- 
.  cially  grateful  to  overworn  nerves,  the  good  doctor 
believed  that  in  this  bit  of  shaded  waterfall  and  quiet 
stretch  of  willow-bordered  lake,  he  had  not  only  health 
and  comfort,  but  that  inevitable  fortune  of  which  every 
American  dreams.  Over  and  over  again  I  had  listened 
to  his  plans^  for  its  development.  I  am  glad  to  say  his 
dreams  have  all  been  fulfilled. 

I  merely  asked  the  livery -keeper,  from  whom  I  hired 
a  rig,  the  road  to  Good  Cheer.  As  God  is  my  judge,  I 
had  no  thought  of  what  would  happen  on  that  eventful 
day.  I  intended  merely  to  get  a  glimpse  of  her — and 
then  go  away.  I  will  not  deny  that  I  hoped  she  would 
recognize  me,  or  that  I  confidently  expected  her  to  do 
so  ;  but  I  had  no  thought  of  anything  more.  I  wished 
to  let  her  know  that  she  had  my  sympathy — that  I  still 
loved  her.     I  did  not  conceal  from  myself  that  I  had 


324  A  Soil  of  Old  Harry. 

no  right  to  do  even  this.  I  was  another  woman's  hus- 
band, she  another  man's  wife.  The  double  barrier 
between  us  I  fully  recognized.  If  I  were  willing  to 
plunge  myself  into  shame,  I  had  no  right  to  drag  her 
down  with  me,  and  did  not  mean  to  do  so. 

It  was  a  bright  day  in  October.  The  dark,  hard 
road  lay  straight  and  level  between  brown,  dry  fields, 
bordered  with  struggling  osage  orange  hedges.  Coun- 
try homes,  bursting  cribs,  eastward-sloping  wind- 
breaks, black  cornfields  with  ripe  ears  hanging  down 
and  gatherers  at  work  in  them,  or  sleek  flocks  browsing 
among  the  broken  stalks  for  neglected  ears,  hardly 
relieved  its  flat  monotony.  The  horse  was  one  of  those 
even-going,  hard-hoofed  roadsters,  with  which  a  prairie 
country  always  abounds.  His  pace  did  not  seem  rapid, 
and  I  was  surprised  to  find  in  half  an  hour  the  dun, 
stunted  grove  of  the  Glen  rising  just  before  me,  and 
catch  a  glint  of  the  little  lake  through  the  half -bare 
branches.  On  the  other  side  of  the  Glen,  and  a  half- 
mile  above,  I  could  see  the  unpainted  roof  of  the  new 
building  I  had  been  told  the  doctor  was  erecting  at 
Heart's  Ease. 

The  sun  was  very  warm,  but  not  warm  enough  to 
account  for  the  perspiration  that  poured  down  my  face. 
My  heel  burned  as  if  in  a  clamp  of  red-hot  iron.  I  felt 
that  I  was  going  to  my  doom,  yet  I  was  powerless  to  turn 
back.  In  truth,  I  did  not  wish  to  if  it  were  possible  that 
I  might  give  her  any  pleasure.  I  was  willing  to  endure 
anything  for  her  sake,  but  this  did  not  make  the  agony 
I  suffered  any  less.  I  drew  up  at  the  top  of  the  bank 
where  the  road  slopes  down  into  the  narrow  gorge,  and 
thought  of  all  these  things.  The  bright  blue  sky  was 
without  a  cloud. 

I  could  hear  the  hammers  of  the  men  at  work  on  the 
new  building  across  the  ravine.     The    strong-limbed 


A  Forsworn  Knight,  325 

chestnut  pulled  upon  the  rein  and  pawed  the  ground 
impatiently.     Should  I  go  on  or  return  ? 

I  did  not  know  what  would  happen.  I  had  formed 
no  plans,  except  that  I  would  see  her.  But  suppose  she 
recognized  me  ;  suppose  she  appealed  to  my  love — 
implored  my  protection  ?  I  knew  that  if  she  did  I  would 
trample  honor  under  my  feet  and  become,  from  that 
moment,  an  outcast  among  men.  Should  I  go  forward 
or  back — back  to  the  wife  I  had  abandoned  or  forward 
to  the  love  who  had  been  torn  from  my  arms  ?  I 
thought  it  all  over — my  father's  hope,  my  mother's 
trust,  my  uncle's  loving  pride,  my  wife's  happiness — it 
was  strange  I  did  not  think  of  her  love.  I  realize  now 
that  I  had  never  gotten  over  a  sort  of  resentment  at  the 
fate  which  bound  us  together.  I  knew  she  loved  me, 
but  had  never  comprehended  the  depth  of  her  devotion. 
It  had  never  occurred  to  me  that,  even  as  I  loved 
another,  so  did  she  love  me  ;  that  knowledge  was  yet  to 
come.  The  hot  blood  mounted  to  my  face,  and  I  put 
my  hands  over  my  eyes  to  shut  out  the  sunlight,  as  I 
thought  how,  only  a  week  before,  my  old  friend,  Doctor 
Neuman,  had  asked  me  if  I  felt  no  inclination  to  return 
to  the  profession  I  had  abandoned — had  told  me  of  the 
good  I  might  do,  of  the  need  of  reapers  in  the  great 
white  harvest-fields,  of  my  father's  aspiration,  of  the 
prayers  which  had  gone  up  for  me  in  the  days  of  battle, 
and  the  joy  of  many  hearts  that,  from  the  midst  of 
temptation,  I  had  come  forth  unscathed. 

How  these  thoughts  stung  and  blistered  and  shriv- 
eled my  heart !  But  all  about  me  in  the  golden  sun- 
shine, echoing  from  the  blue  vault  above,  from  the  rus- 
set-lined gorge  below,  in  the  strokes  of  the  workmen,  in 
the  roar  of  the  waterfall,  came  the  imploring,  abjuring 
cry,  "  Forever  and  ever.  Amen  !"  A  white  face  swam 
before  my  close-shut  eyes,  white  and  wan  and  appeal- 


326  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

ing,  with  golden  tresses,  wax-like,  wraith-like,  drooping 
with  the  unutterable  agony  of  helplessness  and  despair, 
A  fresh  breeze  came  over  the  flat,  pitiless  prairie,  rustled 
the  yellow  corn-husks  on  the  one  side  and  the  brown 
oak-leaves  upon  the  other,  and  each  one  whispered  and 
wailed  :    "  Forever  !     Forever  !" 

How  the  patched  place  upon  my  skull  throbbed  and 
beat !  The  whole  world  seemed  pressing  down  upon 
my  brain.  My  head  was  full  of  phosphorescent  light. 
And  the  Goodwins  were  proud — so  proud  of  their  good 
name  !  My  life  had  been  honorable,  and  I  had  had  the 
devil's  luck.     Now  I  must  pay  the  devil's  price, 

I  caught  the  whip  from  the  socket  and  gave  the  horse 
a  savage  cut.  He  dashed  madly  down  the  sharp  incline. 
The  swift  motion  pleased  me,  I  laughed  at  the  bank 
and  the  trees  as  they  flew  backward.  Would  the  buggy 
upset  and  dash  me  down — down  to  death  on  the  rocks 
below  ?  I  hoped  so.  I  struck  the  horse  again ;  the 
buggy  balanced  on  two  wheels  as  we  turned  toward  the 
narrow  bridge  that  spanned  the  white  torrent-bed  which 
the  shallow  water  spread  itself  lazily  half-way  across. 
The  frail  structure  swayed  beneath  the  spuming  feet, 
and  the  rattling  echoes  raced  up  and  down  the  Glen  as 
we  flew  over  it.  The  road  turned  sharply  to  the  right 
and  climbed  up  the  other  side  of  the  gorge  at  a  grade 
even  heavier  than  that  which  we  had  descended.  There 
was  a  wall  upon  the  left,  somewhat  higher  than  the  wheels 
of  the  carriage — a  parapet  built  to  restrain  the  slaty 
earth  above.  The  rush  had  calmed  my  excitement. 
Something  seemed  to  have  given  way  in  my  brain. 
The  wild,  throbbing,  desperate  pain  which  marked  the 
location  of  the  trephine  was  gone — gone  forever,  as  I 
learned — and  I  felt  strangely  light,  exultant,  free  ;  reck- 
less, perhaps,  I  might  better  say.  The  past  was  not 
forgotten,   but  seemed   dim   and  remote.     The    steep 


A  Forszvorn  Knight.  327 

grade  was  telling  on  the  horse  ;  his  pace  fell  first  to  a 
trot,  and  then  to  a  labored,  wheezing  walk.  His  flanks 
were  covered  with  foam.  The  sun  beat  down  fierce  and 
hot  in  the  windless  ravine. 

"Jack!     Jack!" 

A  gray  figure  sprang  from  the  ground  a  dozen  steps 
away,  and  in  an  instant  stood  balanced  on  the  wall  by 
the  roadside.  I  checked  the  horse  in  amazement. 
There  was  a  rush  of  garments,  and  a  woman  lighted 
like  a  bird  in  the  buggy  by  my  side.  The  horse  started, 
but  was  too  much  fagged  to  run,  and,  after  a  few  steps, 
resumed  his  hurried,  frightened  walk. 

"  I'm  all  right,"  she  whispered,  seating  herself  com- 
posedly.    "  Let  him  go." 

I  hastily  soothed  the  horse  with  my  voice. 

"  Jack  ?"  she  said,  inquiringly,  turning  her  head  toward 
me.  "Jack  !  Jack  I"  she  repeated  wildly,  flinging  her 
arms  about  my  neck. 

Ah  !  How  they  choked  me  !  Or  was  it  the  heart- 
beats ?  I  knew  I  had  met  my  doom.  Nay  !  I  was 
already  in  perdition  !     Yet  I  had  no  wish  to  turn  back. 

We  were  approaching  the  top  of  the  gorge.  I  remem- 
bered having  heard  that  the  road  to  Good  Cheer  ran 
along  the  "  section-line  "  a  considerable  distance  from 
the  house.  I  put  up  the  carriage-top,  drew  the  dust- 
cloth  over  her  lap  and  took  the  right-hand  road. 

The  die  was  cast !  I  no  longer  felt  sorrow,  shame  or 
dread.     She  was  with  me  ! 

"  Jack !  Jack  !"  she  continued  to  repeat,  as  she 
sobbed  hysterically  on  my  shoulder, 

"  Dee,"  I  said  tenderly,  when  we  had  passed  the  house 
and  had  only  the  open  prairie  before  us  again — "  poor 
little  Dee  !" 

I  heard  the  workmen's  hammers  ring  behind  us  as  I 


328  A  Soil  of  Old  Harry. 

spoke.     I  took  the  reins  in  my  right  hand  and  clasped 
my  left  arm  about  her. 

"  Don't  scold  Weely,"  she  said,  shrinking  away  and 
looking  half -timorously,  half-reproachfully  up  into  my 
face.     My  excited  tone  had  frightened  her. 

What  was  it  made  the  cold  sweat  start  out  from  every 
pore  ?  This  was  not  she  whom  I  sought.  The  features 
were  the  same,  the  eyes  the  same,  but  another,  a  differ- 
ent intelligence  was  in  them.  The  voice  had  changed, 
too  ;  there  were  the  same  tones,  but  of  a  different  qual- 
ity. It  seemed  as  if  another  being  looked  through  the 
shallow,  wavering  eyes  ;  some  soulless  automaton  moved 
the  lips  that  used  to  smile  upon  me  when  they  spoke. 
The  hair,  too — it  had  partly  fallen  down,  and  had  that 
visibly  snaky  look  so  characteristic  of  the  insane. 

*'  Deely  !  Dee  !  Dee  !  Don't  you  know  me  ?  Don't 
you  remember  Jack  ?"  I  cried,  in  agony,  striving  to 
awaken  the  consciousness  I  would  not  believe  could  be 
dead  to  my  entreaty. 

A  troubled  expression  came  upon  her  face.  She 
seemed  to  be  listening  to  something  very  far  away — a 
voice  she  could  dimly  hear  or  was  unable  to  recognize. 

**  Jack  ?"  she  cried,  with  pathetic  inquiry,  looking  not 
into  my  face  but  past  it.  "  Jack  !  Jack  !"  she  repeated  ; 
but  there  was  no  hint  of  recognition  in  her  tones. 

I  bowed  my  head  in  shame  and  horror.  What  had  I 
done  ?  For  what  had  I  bartered  manhood — honor — the 
esteem  of  all?  A  crazy  woman's  senseless  cry  had 
dragged  me  down  to  perdition.  Strange  enough,  it  did 
not  once  occur  to  me  that  what  had  been  done  might 
easily  be  undone,  that  I  might  drive  back  to  Heart's 
Ease,  and  by  telling  only  the  truth,  hide  forever  all  sus- 
picion of  the  truth.  1  had  set  out  to  give  my  life  for  her 
happiness.  I  did  not  think  it  material  whether  her  de- 
sire was  rational  or  insane.     So  when  she  asked  in  that 


A   Forsiuorii  Knight.  329 

horrible,  mechanical  tone,  but  with  a  bright,  interested 
look  :  "  Are  we  going  to  Good  Cheer  ?"  I  nodded  af- 
firmatively. 

"  How  good  !  It  is  five  miles,"  she  said,  contentedly. 
"  Shall  we  take  the  cars  ?" 

I  looked  at  my  watch.  A  train  would  pass  there  in  an 
hour  going  east. 

"  Would  you  like  to  ?"  I  asked. 

She  started  at  the  sound  of  my  voice,  and  looked  at 
me  with  curious  inquiry. 

"Jack!"  she  moaned,  plaintively.  "Jack!  Jack! 
Jack!" 

The  last  words  sank  to  a  whisper. 

"  Where  would  you  like  to  go  ?" 

"Anywhere,"  she  answered  brightly  again — "any- 
where.    How  good  !" 

Then  her  eyes  became  dreamy,  and  she  repeated, 
softly  :  "  Jack  !  Jack  !  Jack  !" 

"  To  Dubuque  ?"  I  asked. 

It  was  there  her  husband  lived. 

"No  !"  she  exclaimed,  excitedly.  Her  brows  knotted, 
and  she  turned  and  spat  angrily  toward  the  roadside. 
"  No  !  No  !"  she  repeated. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  came  again 
the  plaintive  cry : 

"Jack!  Jack!  Jack!" 

How  my  heart  ached !  Had  she  been  calling  me  day 
and  night  for  all  these  years  ?  What  were  honor,  rank, 
esteem  in  comparison  with  her  poor  heart's  content  ? 
Hereafter  she  should  never  call  for  me  in  vain.  But 
what  should  I  do  with  her  ?  She  would  attract  the  at- 
tention of  every  one  we  met.  Thinking  perhaps  my 
voice  had  stirred  her  memory  and  made  her  unusually 
excited,  I  tried  to  disguise  it,  and  said,  in  a  very  differ- 
ent tone : 


330  A  Son  of  Old  Hari'y. 

"  If  you  go  on  the  train  you  must  be  very  quiet." 

She  looked  inquiringly  at  me  an  instant,  as  if  a  little 
disturbed  by  my  presence,  and  then  answered,  lightly  : 

"  Oh,  I  will ;  you  know  I  always  am.  I  do  like  to 
travel.  Shall  we  go  in  a  sleeper?  I  never  was  in  a 
sleeper — but  once.     How  good  !" 

The  childish  sentences  pained  me  not  less  than  the 
eager  look  which  accompanied  them,  but  most  of  all  the 
senseless  phrase  of  acknowledgment.  Presently  I 
noticed  that  her  lips  were  moving,  and  heard  her  saying, 
below  her  breath  : 

"  Jack  !  Jack  !  Jack  !" 

How  many  times  had  she  called  me  in  the  silent  years 
since  we  parted  ?  I  vowed  then  again  to  remain  with 
her  "  Forever  and  ever  !"  I  did  not  say  until  she  was 
dead,  for  I  knew  I  could  never  go  back  to  the  life  I 
had  abandoned. 

It  was  ten  minutes  of  train-time  when  we  reached  the 
station.  At  my  suggestion  she  had  put  up  her  hair 
with  all  her  old  grace  and  deftness.  I  could  not  touch 
it.  It  was  like  the  locks  of  the  dead  to  me.  I  assisted 
her  from  the  buggy,  gave  the  driver  of  a  waiting  omni- 
bus the  price  he  asked  to  return  the  horse  to  Wiswall 
Station,  and  taking  my  overcoat,  umbrella  and  gripsack 
entered  the  station  with  Dee  at  my  side.  I  gave  her 
the  light  overcoat  to  carry — a  woman  looks  strangely 
uncomfortable  with  nothing  in  her  hands  when  travel- 
ing. I  bought  tickets  to  Chicago.  The  seats  in  the 
sleeping-car  were  all  occupied  except  the  state-room  ; 
so  I  took  that.  She  was  full  of  childish  wonder  at 
everything  she  saw,  asking  the  same  questions  often 
over  and  over  again. 

It  was  nearly  dark  when  we  reached  a  station  where 
the  train  stopped  for  supper.  It  was  a  junction  with 
another  great  trunk  line  leading  south  westward.    As.we 


A  Forsworn  Knight.  331 

steamed  into  the  depot  I  saw  a  train  upon  the  track 
beyond  the  station  headed  the  other  way.  My  plan  was 
taken  in  an  instant.  I  did  not  know  where  it  was  going  ; 
I  did  not  care.  When  our  train  slowed  up,  I  took  my 
companion  by  the  hand  and  started  to  get  off.  She 
followed  me  gladly.  There  was  a  great  crowd  rushing 
back  and  forth.  The  gong  was  sounding  ;  parties  were 
shouting ;  the  station-lamps  glared  ;  the  steam  hissed, 
and  all  was  confusion.  The  porter  said,  as  he  helped 
us  from  the  train,  that  it  would  wait  twenty  minutes  for 
supper.  He  advised  that  we  should  leave  our  luggage 
in  the  car.  I  pretended  not  to  hear  him.  There  was  a 
good  reason  why  I  should  not.  Dee's  eyes  were  roving 
about  the  unaccustomed  scene,  not  wildly,  but  with  that 
uncomprehending  eagerness  which  more  surely  tells  of 
a  brain  diseased.  Tucking  her  hand  under  my  arm,  I 
hurried  through  the  crowded  station  and  secured  seats 
on  the  other  train .  Then  I  went  back,  procured  tickets 
to  the  western  terminus  of  the  road,  ordered  a  porter  to 
bring  us  refreshments,  and  while  she  ate,  indited  a  note 
to  Doctor  Talcott  informing  him  of  what  had  occurred. 
I  thought  it  only  just  that  I  should  relieve  him  both 
from  anxiety  and  imputation.  It  was  well  I  did  so. 
That  letter  was  the  last  vestige  of  my  old  life.  Since  I 
dropped  it  in  the  letter-box  of  the  Junction  no  hint  or 
trace  of  Hubert  Goodwin  has  been  found  by  any  one 
who  knew  him  while  alive.  The  tree  of  my  lirst  life  had 
grown  thriftily  and  straight,  its  branches  decked  with 
honorable  deeds  and  rare  good  fortune.  It  had  flowered 
and  fruited  with  golden  promise.  Alas !  they  were 
apples  of  Sodom — ashes  and  doom. 

All  night  long  she  leaned  her  golden  head  against  my 
breast  and  slept,  while  the  train  rumbled  on  into  the 
darkness.  A  storm  raged  without ;  one  more  terrible 
still  raged  in  my  bosom.     She  was  ignorant  of  both. 


;^^2  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

The  train  was  crowded.  The  great  Eastera  hive  was 
swarming  out  on  the  yet  unoccupied  Western  plains. 
As  the  night  crept  on,  the  strange  silence  which  never 
prevails  where  the  habitations  of  man  are  frequent 
settled  down  upon  us.  We  were  passing  over  the  almost 
unsettled  prairies,  which  were  so  soon  to  become  the 
seat  of  empire.  The  engine  throbbed,  the  wheels 
rolled  on  through  the  silence  while  I  thought  out  my 
destiny.  The  past  was  dead — how  dead  I  did  not  know. 
The  future  had  no  ray  of  light.  Even  love  was  dead. 
I  thought  I  could  not  love  the  woman  who  slept  in  my 
arms  so  peacefully.  The  fiercest  passion  could  not  look 
into  her  eyes  and  live.  Pity  was  the  strongest  senti- 
ment she  could  evoke,  and  I  did  pity  her  tenderly  and 
truly.  As  I  caught  sight  of  her  sleeping  face,  now  and 
then,  by  the  light  of  the  flickering  car-lamp,  I  knew  that 
destiny  had  linked  me  with  her  doom  irrevocably. 
Fate  had  made  her  my  sister  ;  shame  and  folly,  per- 
haps sin,  had  made  me  her  protector.  Whatever  I 
had  been  before,  I  recognized  the  fact  that  thereafter  I 
could  be  only  the  wind-break  of  this  shadowy  existence. 
I  might  shield  her  from  the  storms  of  life  ;  beyond  that 
I  had  no  future. 

Had  it  been  possible,  I  think  I  might  even  then  have 
been  tempted  to  retrace  my  steps.  Strange  as  it  may 
seem,  for  the  first  time  I  thought  that  night  regretfully 
of  my  wife  in  her  deserted  home,  and  of  the  life  I  had 
voluntarily  broken  in  twain.  The  pain  in  my  head, 
which  had  hardly  left  me  since  conscioi^sness  returned 
after  my  wound,  was  gone.  I  had  felt  none  of  it  since 
that  mad  ride  through  the  gorge  at  Heart's  Ease.  Yet 
the  suffering  of  that  night  it  is  impossible  to  describe. 
While  she  slept  I  bent  above  her,  my  hat  drawn  down 
over  my  eyes,  my  face  burning  and  chill  by  turns,  but 
wet  with  drops  of  unutterable  agony.     It  was  as  if  1 


A  Forsworn  Knight.  333 

had  just  waked  out  of  a  fevered  dream,  to  know  that  by 
my  own  frenzied  act  in  that  half-conscious  state  I  had 
cut  myself  off  forever  from  all  hope  of  happiness. 

I  had  strange  dreams  in  those  fevered  hours.  At  one 
time  I  thought  I  would  return  next  day,  deliver  her 
to  her  husband  and  go  back  again  to  my  old  life; 
perhaps  I  might  wire  Doctor  Talcott  and  the  escape  o- 
his  patient  thus  be  kept  secret.  Could  I  do  it  ?  Would  her 
husband  receive  her  back  from  my  hands  ?  She  was  as 
spotless  as  when  I  first  kissed  her  child-lips  so  long  ago. 
I  could  not  kiss  her  lips  now.  In  all  the  long  hours  of 
that  terrible  night  I  felt  no  inclination  to  once  touch  the 
parted  leaflets  which  smiled  and  quivered  as  she  slept 
and  dreamed  upon  my  breast.  I  had  no  wish  to  possess 
what  I  had  so  long  yearned  to  enjoy.  I  knew  it  could 
not  be.  The  world  would  not  permit  either  the 
wronged  husband  or  the  deserted  wife  to  forgive.  My 
story  would  be  laughed  at.  Why  should  it  not  be  ?  It 
now  seemed  incredible  even  to  me.  So,  I  beat  around 
the  cruel  circle  of  my  Fate,  coming  always  to  the  same 
conclusion  ;  no  backward  step  was  possible  ;  we  must 
go  forward,  she  and  I,  and  hand  in  hand. 

Before  the  morning  dawned,  I  had  decided  what 
should  be  done,  I  would  bury  the  dead  past  and  we 
two  would  live  alone,  a  new  life  in  a  new  world.  She 
should  be  my  sister.  I  would  live  for  her,  care  for  her, 
acquire  for  her.  She  should  have  comfort,  tenderness, 
love — such  love  as  one  gives  to  things  unconscious  or 
superhuman.  I  would  live  by  her  side,  and  when  the 
end  came  to  her,  would  bury  the  rest  of  my  shattered 
life  in  oblivion.  But  I  determined  that  I  would  never 
wear  the  old  name.  No  future  act  should  add  to  the 
infamy  I  had  already  heaped  upon  it — the  dear  old  name 
of  which  I  had  been  so  proud  !  I  bent  and  kissed  the 
fair  brow  of  the  sleeper  as  I  reached  this  conclusion, 


334  ^  '^^^^  ^f  ^^^  Harry. 

little  dreaming  how  Fate  had  joined  hands  with  my  pur- 
pose and  wrought  for  me  in  those  bitter  hours  of  dark- 
ness. 

The  sun  was  shining  over  the  gray  shimmering  aut- 
umn prairies  as  we  steamed  into  an  infant  metropolis 
of  the  plains. 

"Paper?  Morning  NewsT^  cried  an  enterprising  lad 
who  boarded  the  train  before  it  reached  the  station. 
"All  about  the  big  cyclone  !" 

I  bought  a  copy  and  ran  my  eyes  hastily  over  the 
news  columns,  trembling  lest  my  shame  had  already  be- 
come public.  Sure  enough,  there  it  was  in  glaring 
capitals  : 

"  General  Goodwin,  the  Brilliant  Cavalry  Leader 

WHO  LEFT  HIS    HOME  IN  THE  EaST  SO  MYSTERIOUSLY  A 
FEW  DAYS  AGO,  StEALS  THE  WiFE  OF  THE  HoN.  RaN- 

som    howe    from    a    private    asylum    for    the 
Insane  !" 

"  The  Guilty  Couple  take  Passage  for  Chicago  on  a 
Train  which  is  Wrecked  by  a  Cyclone,  and  are 
Both  Killed  !" 

"Terrible  Cyclone  in  Iowa,  Sweeping  Through  into 
Northern  Illinois  !" 

My  brain  was  in  a  whirl  as  I  read.  The  train  on 
which  we  had  taken  passage  for  Chicago  had  run  into 
the  cyclone  which  devastated  three  States  that  sultry 
autumn  night ;  the  sleeper  attached  to  it  had  been 
blown  from  the  track  and  caught  fire  and  burned,  with 
all  on  board.  It  was  known  that  we  had  taken  this 
train,  and  not  known  that  we  had  left  it.  We  were  in- 
deed dead — dead  to  all  the  world  except  ourselves. 


A  Forsworn  Knight.  335 

Nay,  to  all  except  myself  ;  the  fair  creature  who,  wak- 
ing from  undisturbed  repose,  was  watching  with  childish 
eagerness  all  that  went  on  about  her,  did  not  count. 
She  had  died  before.  And  now  we  were  alone — the 
dead  with  his  dead. 

It  flashed  upon  me  in  an  instant.  I  had  only  to  accept 
the  boon  that  Fate  held  out — enter  the  grave  that  had 
been  prepared  for  me — and  the  tide  of  shame  would 
sweep  harmlessly  above  me.  There  would  be  need  of 
such  shelter,  as  I  well  knew.  The  very  journal  in  my 
trembling  hands  reeked  with  denunciation  of  my  infamy. 
How  I  pitied  the  poor  wife  who  alone  would  be  left  to 
meet  its  force  !  And  the  Goodwins — the  Goodwins  who 
were  so  pVoud  !     My  brain  reeled  ! 

But  I  knew  I  must  act  quickly.  Already  it  seemed  as 
if  a  score  of  suspicious  glances  were  fixed  upon  me.  I 
fancied  that  I  heard  my  name  bandied  from  one  to  an- 
other— the  name  I  loved — of  which  I  was  so  proud  !  I 
must  never  answer  to  it  again,  never  show  any  interest 
should  it  be  mentioned  in  my  presence  !  I  must  have 
another.  Where  should  I  get  it  ?  What  should  I  call 
myself  ?  A  thousand  names  flashed  through  my  brain. 
Which  should  I  choose  ? 

But  first  we  must  leave  the  train.  It  would  not  do  to 
risk  detection  by  traveling  longer  with  those  who  had 
been  our  fellow-passengers  from  the  Junction. 

"  Come  !  "  I  said  hurriedly  to  my  companion,  gathering 
up  our  things. 

"Are  we  going  to  stop  here?"  she  asked  in  pleased 
surprise.  "  How  good.!  Jack  !  Jack  !"  she  began  in  her 
low,  wailing  cry. 

I  turned  and  looked  at  her  sharply,  reprovingly. 

"  How  good  !  How  good  !"  she  murmured  apologeti- 
cally . 


336  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

As  we  rode  from  the  station  she  kept  repeating  these 
words  alternately  in  half- audible  whispers. 

"Jack!  Jack!     How  good  !     How  good  !" 

I  was  busy  with  my  thoughts,  and  paid  no  heed  to  her 
words. 

When  we  reached  the  hotel  and  I  stood  pen  in  hand 
before  the  register,  they  flashed  upon  my  consciousness 
and  I  wrote  : 

"John  Howgood  and  sister." 

I  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  contrast  between  the 
name  I  had  assumed  and  the  one  the  world  had  given 
me  that  morning.  When  I  glanced  in  the  mirror  in  the 
hotel  parlor  where  I  left  her,  I  saw  that  my, hair  was 
streaked  with  gray.  In  a  week,  it  was  almost  white. 
I  let  my  beard  grow.  It  was  white  also.  I  gave  out 
that  I  had  brought  my  sister  to  the  city  for  treatment, 
and  was  fortunate  in  finding  a  quiet  lodging  and  secur- 
ing a  bright,  strong-armed  French  girl>  whom  the  ebb  of 
fortune  had  just  then  cast  adrift  in  the  city,  to  attend 
upon  her.  She  was  faithful,  tender-hearted,  and  spoke 
so  little  English  that  there  was  small  danger  that  she 
would  tell  what  she  might  learn,  or  guess  at  what  she 
did  not  know.  There  was  not  much  to  fear.  We  were 
new  beings  in  a  new  world  ;  nameless  but  for  the 
pseudonym  the  irony  of  her  unconscious  repetition 
bestowed.  Yet  into  this  new  world  love  entered,  and 
with  it  hope.  I  determined  to  attempt  her  restoration, 
and  began  very  soon  to  people  a  possible  future  with 
bright  visions  of  a  love  no  past  should  disturb. 

It  seemed  an  easy  task.  There  was  only  a  little  way 
between  her  sprightly  consciousness  and  that  strange 
sequence  of  ideas  which  we  call  sanity,  and  I  wondered 
that  those  who  had  had  her  in  charge  had  not  long  ago 
found  a  way  over  the  impalpable  barrier  which  sep- 
arated them.     But  I  soon  found  that  her  poor  brain  was 


A   Forsivorn  Knight.  'x,'^^ 

like  the  sands  of  the  seashore.  However  fair  and 
plain  a  thought  might  be  written  on  it  to-day,  it  was  a 
blank  upon  the  morrow.  A  few  every-day  facts  seemed 
weakly  impressed  upon  it. 

She  was  quiet,  modest,  docile,  and  ever  anxious  to 
please.  She  was  very  fond  of  having  one  read  aloud  to 
her,  but  cared  little  what  the  book  might  be,  only  pre- 
ferring poetry  or  prose  of  a  metric  or  sonorous 
character.  Like  a  little  child,  she  was  vain  of  her  ability 
to  read  ;  an  act  which  consisted  of  a  ready  and  correct 
pronunciation  of  the  words  upon  a  printed  page  with- 
out the  least  comprehension  of  their  significance,  or 
rather  without  any  coherent  sense  of  the  succession  of 
ideas  presented  by  them.  This  verbal  recollection  I  had 
often  heard  Doctor  Talcott  refer  to  as  one  of  the  strange 
phases  of  her  ailment.  He  connected  it  somehow  with 
her  previous  linguistic  ability,  which  had  been  very 
noticeable,  and  thought  this  had  created  a  sort  of 
instinctive  mechanical  aptitude  for  verbal  forms,  just  as 
persons  of  weak  minds  sometimes  possess  remarkable 
arithmetical  powers  without  any  comprehension  of  the 
problems  they  solve  or  the  significance  even  of  the 
numbers  they  use.  While  she  pronounced  most  words 
correctly,  her  enunciation  showed  that  she  had  no  com- 
prehension of  their  import — she  pronounced  rather  than 
read,  and  never  opened  a  book  except  to  display  this 
faculty. 

I  did  not  murmur  at  the  task  I  had  assumed,  counting 
no  penance  too  great  for  the  wrong  I  had  done.  Besides 
that,  she  was  all  alone  in  the  world.  There  was  no  one 
else  to  whom  her  darkened  soul  could  appeal,  for  I  alone 
knew  that  she  lived.  Her  mother  had  died  a  year  after 
her  daughter's  marriage,  and  her  father  married  again 
and  entered  upon  a  new  life  in  which  she  was  hardly 
included.     He  was  one  of  the  great  army  of  speculators 


338  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

who  seized  upon  the  opportunities  of  that  wonderful 
West  which  sprang  into  existence  with  the  return  of 
peace  after  the  turmoil  of  civil  war.  I  do  not  doubt  that 
her  supposed  death  was  a  matter  of  relief  rather  than  of 
sorrow  to  him  ;  not  that  he  failed  in  affection  for  her, 
but  he  was  one  of  those  men  whose  schemes  absorb  all 
their  thought. 

In  seeking  to  effect  her  restoration,  my  conversations 
with  Doctor  Talcott  in  the  old  days  proved  to  be  of  the 
greatest  service.  Absolute  seclusion  from  all  exciting 
association,  good  health,  fresh  air,  absence  of  restraint, 
and  the  constant  presence  of  a  sympathetic  nature, 
offered,  he  was  accustomed  to  say,  the  only  ameliorat- 
ing influences  in  such  cases  as  hers.  If  one  could  man- 
age to  start  the  long  unused  intellectual  machinery 
without  shock,  the  probability  was  that  it  would  con- 
tinue to  work  on  without  future  aberration.  Relapse, 
I  had  often  heard  him  declare,  was  almost  sure  to  prove 
fatal  or  result  in  absolute  hopeless  amenia ;  and  there 
was  nothing  so  likely  to  produce  such  a  relapse  as  a  too 
sudden  or  too  complete  knowledge  of  what  her  condi- 
tion had  been,  and  what  had  occurred  in  the  interval  of 
unconsciousness. 

Never  before  had  I  been  especially  grateful  for  the 
abundance  which  had  fallen  to  my  lot.  Now  I  dedi- 
cated it  to  her,  and  determined  to  spare  no  effort  to 
effect  her  restoration.  I  could  not  yet  abandon  the  idea 
that  she  would  some  time  recognize  my  presence  and 
respond  to  my  prayer ;  for  I  forgot  all  else  in  the 
impenetrable  oblivion  which  had  fallen  upon  us,  and 
looked  forward  only  to  life  and  love  with  her.  For  a 
time  I  fancied  I  perceived  signs  of  amendment.  She 
had  readily  associated  my  name  with  my  presence,  and 
called  me  Jack  in  the  same  careless  tone  with  which  she 
spoke  to  others  who  were  frequently  with  her,  and 


A  Forsworn  Knight. 


339 


though  she  seemed  to  half  forget  the  name  during  my 
absences,  she  recalled  it,  as  she  did  not  any  other,  with- 
out assistance.  I  spent  as  much  time  with  her  as  I 
could,  but  soon  became  aware  that  something  more  than 
temporary  arrangements  must  be  made  for  her  care  and 
exclusion  from  sights  and  sounds  which  diverted  her 
attention  and  rendered  my  best  efforts  abortive. 


PART  THIRD— JOHN  HOWGOOD. 
CHAPTER  I. 


BY     FORCE    OF     LAW. 

"  Away  back  in  the  sixties,"  as  the  phrase  is  in  the 
"  Centennial  "  State,  John  H.  Howgood  bought  property 
in  Denver. 

The  Queen  City  of  the  Plains  was  hardly  more  than 
a  possibility  then.  It  was  a  hopeful  possibility,  how- 
ever. The  reaction  had  set  in  aftef  the  subsidence  of 
the  Pike's  Peak  "boom."  The  close  of  the  war  and  the 
fact  that  three  great  railroads  were  already  looking 
toward  it  as  the  rallying-point  of  prospective  prosperity 
made  its  great  expectations  seem  wonderfully  near  to 
the  elastic-spirited  adventurers  who  had  staked  out  a 
desert-Venice — a  metropolis  unique  in  character  and  in 
insularity — under  the  shadow  of  the  white  mountain- 
peaks,  where  the  Platte  debouches  from  its  granite 
gorge  and  bravely  begins  its  doubtful  journey  over  the 
shimmering  plains.  The  cloudless  air  of  the  high  pla- 
teau plays  curious  freaks,  not  only  with  the  eyes  but 
with  the  imagination  also,  discounting  time  as  well  as 
distance,  and  bringing  the  future  as  well  as  the  moun- 
tain very  close  to  the  hopeful  observer.  So  while  the 
embryo  metropolis  was  at  that  time  hardly  more  than 
staked  out,  it  was  staked  out  a  great  way  and  in  imagin- 


By  Force  of  Law.  34  t 

ation  built  up  to  the  very  limit  of  the  map  which  daz- 
zled the  eyes  of,  the  incredulous  "  tenderfoot."  Still,  a 
little  money  went  a  good  way  then,  even  in  the  pur- 
chase of  corner-lots,  and  John  Howgood — "  Old  How- 
good,"  as  he  soon  came  to  be  called — seemed  to  have  a 
fancy  for  corner-lots,  and  a  confidence  in  the  future  of 
the  undeveloped  Queen  City  which  staggered  the  enthu- 
siasm of  even  the  "  oldest  settlers."  It  soon  became 
apparent  that  he  had  "struck  the  thin  edge"  of  a  new 
"boom."  The  mere  accession  of  adventurous  spirits 
whom  the  end  of  the  war  had  set  free  to  find  new  homes 
and  build  new  empires,  would,  no  doubt,  of  itself  have 
proved  sufficient  to  have  entitled  the  Territory  to  a 
place  in  the  galaxy  of  States  a  decade  later  ;  but  the 
general  belief  in  her  yet  almost  undeveloped  mineral 
resources  was  doing  very  much  to  revive  the  depression 
which  followed  upon  the  exhaustion  of  the  original 
"  Pike's  Peak  "  gulches. 

Even  in  this  infant  city,  however,  there  were  few  who 
could  boast  any  personal  knowledge  of  the  new  inves- 
tor. He  had  boarded  for  a  time  at  a  hotel  and  had  a 
box  at  the  post-office.  That  was  about  as  near  a  loca- 
tion as  he  made.  All  negotiations  with  him  were  by 
letter,  or,  after  a  time,  with  his  agent,  who  lived  in  a 
modest  one-story  house  on  what  it  was  expected  would 
some  time  be  a  corner,  to  be  bounded  by  streets  yet 
undiscoverable,  except  with  the  aid  of  a  map  and  a  sur- 
veyor's compass.  Whenever  an  agreement  was  reached 
with  him  in  regard  to  any  particular  property,  the  mat- 
ter was  referred  to  his  attorney  to  examine  the  title, 
and  a  draft  given  payable  to  his  order,  to  conclude  the 
purchase. 

Other  things  as  well  as  his  invisibility  aided  to  estab- 
lish for  Mr.  Howgood  a  reputation  for  eccentricity.  He 
never  gave  more  than  he  first  offered  for  property,  and 


342  A   Sou  of  Old  Harry. 

never  made  a  second  proffer  for  the  same  premises. 
Nobody  knew  where  he  was  from,  what  were  his  ante- 
cedents, or  how  much  he  was  worth.  To  tell  the  exact 
truth,  nobody  cared  much  except  as  to  the  latter.  The 
people  of  the  new  territory  were  very  lenient  about 
some  things.  No  man  was  asked  for  a  certificate  of 
character.  Individuals,  like  money,  passed  at  their  face 
value.  If  they  chose  to  "  bank  "  upon  the  past,  it  added 
little  to  their  credit.  A  man's  name  was  of  no  more 
consequence  than  the  house  he  lived  in,  and  this  no 
more  important  than  the  coat  he  wore.  If  he  chose  to' 
make  acquaintances,  well  and  good  ;  if  he  chose  to  "  live 
in  his  hole,"  nobody  intruded  on  his  privacy.  There 
were  too  many  failures  and  too  many  shaky  reputations 
in  the  budding  metropolis  to  make  society  especially 
heedful  of  the  character  of  its  new  accessions.  Every 
"  tenderfoot"  counted  one,  and  was  welcome.  If  he 
grew  too  troublesome,  he  was  given  a  hint  to  move  on. 
If  he  obeyed,  well  and  good  ;  if  he  did  not — well,  there 
was  always  "the bridge."  And  there  was,  also,  always 
an  overwhelming  majority  on  the  side  of  the  public  in- 
terest, if  not  of  public  morals.  It  would  not  do  for  a 
town  to  be  too  bad,  any  more  than  it  would  do  to  have 
it  too — too  nice. 

Assimilation  was  easy  with  such  a  population,  and 
Howgood,  despite  his  whimsicalities,  was  soon  recog- 
nized as  an  enterprising  citizen,  against  whom,  as  noth- 
ing was  known,  nothing  was  said.  Estimated  by  the 
market  value  of  the  lots  standing  in  his  name,  he  was 
soon  accounted  rich.  The  fact  that  no  mortgage  was 
recorded  against  him  greatly  enhanced  his  reputation. 
Time  passes  quickly  in  such  communities,  and  the  "  ten- 
derfoot "  becomes  an  "  old  resident  "  almost  before  he 
knows  it.     "  Old  Howgood  "  was  a  **  well-known  citizen  " 


By  Force  of  Law.  343 

in  a  few  months,  and  after  the  lapse  of  a  year  or  so,  was 
esteemed  one  of  the  "  substantial  men  "  of  the  city. 

About  this  time  an  incident  occurred  which  for  a  day 
or  two  drew  on  him  the  attention  of  the  town.  The 
"  very  oldest "  residents  still  speak  of  it  as  *'  the  fight 
over  an  initial."  There  was  another  John  H.  Howgood, 
it  appears,  who  was  known  to  live  in  a  very  unpreten- 
tious house  away  out  on  the  bluffs,  where  the  streets 
were  then  quite  undiscoverable.  He  was  a  quiet,  in- 
offensive young  man  who  did  nothing  ;  owned  only  the 
place  he  lived  on,  and  supported  a  feeble-minded  sister 
and  her  attendant — nobody  knew  how.  He  paid  for 
what  he  got,  and  was  devoted  to  the  sister,  who  was 
never  seen  abroad  except  on  horseback  in  his  company. 
"  Old  Howgood  "  quarreled  with  this  man  on  account  of 
his  name. 

Of  course,  letters  directed  to  John  H,  Howgood  or  to 
J,  H.  Howgood  were  as  likely  to  fall  into  the  possession 
of  the  one  as  the  other  ;  and,  equally,  of  course,  each 
one  was  likely  to  open  the  letters  he  received,  and  so 
become  possessed  of  the  other's  secrets.  The  modest 
dweller  on  what  has  since  become  famous  as  Capitol 
Hill  made  no  objection  to  this,  but  "  Old  Howgood  " 
raised  a  row.  He  wrote  to  the  postmaster,  to  the  de- 
partment, to  his  namesake  and  to  the  newspapers  about 
it.  But  the  young  John  H.  Howgood  was  as  stubborn 
as  the  old  one.  The  whole  city  laughed,  and  the  con- 
fusion continued.  At  length  the  capitalist  had  his  name 
changed,  by  special  act  of  the  Territorial  Legislature,  to 
plain  John  Howgood,  giving  due  notice  of  the  same. 
The  transaction  created  some  amusement,  but  was 
looked  upon  as  one  of  "  Old  Howgood's  "  whims.  An 
attested  copy  of  the  act  was  filed  in  all  the  public  offices, 
and  made  a  matter  of  record  in  every  county  of  the 
Territory. 


344  ^  -^^'^  ^f  ^^^  Harry. 

Soon  after  this,  the  owner  of  the  humble  dwelling  on 
the  hill  sold  the  premises  to  his  disgruntled  namesake 
and  disappeared.  People  said  he  got  a  fancy  price  to 
move  away  and  leave  the  original  Howgood  the  sole  use 
of  the  name.  Be  that  as  it  may,  John  Howgood  had 
thus  become  a  legal  existence  of  the  most  indisputable 
character,  a  clause  in  the  act  having  annulled  and  ex- 
tinguished all  other  names  and  aliases^  by  which  it  might 
at  any  previous  time  be  known.  Nobody  dreamed  that 
the  whole  controversy  was  simulated — a  studied  ruse, 
by  which  what  seemed  like  two  identities  had  been 
merged  into  one,  and  a  name  which  was  a  mere  cloak 
had  been  given  substantial  verity. 

As  "  prospecting "  went  on  in  the  Territory,  "  Old 
Howgood  "  acquired  an  interest  in  various  mining  prop- 
erties, most  of  which  were  so  successful  that  it  came  to 
be  laughingly  spoken  of  as  a  fortunate  thing  to  have 
him  as  a  partner  in  such  ventures.  He  always  paid 
cash  for  such  interests,  and  never  let  go  until  he  sold  at 
an  advance.  So  matters  stood  when  his  lawyer  received 
directions  to  purchase  for  him,  from  the  government,  a 
large  tract  of  land  in  one  of  the  most  inaccessible  and 
barren  portions  of  the  Territory. 

"  Well,  Old  Howgood  has  done  it  now,"  the  attorney 
said  to  his  partner,  as  he  read  these  instructions. 

"  How  so  ?"  asked  the  other,  looking  up  from  the 
brief  over  which  he  was  poring. 

"  Why,  I  haven't  heard  a  word  from  him  for  months. 
His  agent  said  he  was  out  of  town,  and  he  had  no  idea 
where  he  was  or  when  he  would  return,  but  here  he 
sends  an  order  for  me  to  buy  for  him  both  sides  the 
river  for  five  miles  up  and  down  one  of  the  worst  can- 
yojis  in  the  Rockies,  lying  a  hundred  miles  from  nowhere 
and  inaccessible  to  anyone  not  blessed  with  wings.  I 
declare,  it  is  a  pity  to  waste  money  in  that  way  !    With 


By  Force  of  Law.  >  345 

such  chances  as  there  are  here,  too — lots  of  splendid 
property  changing  hands  every  day." 

"  What  does  he  expect  to  do  with  the  gorge  ?" 

"  That's  the  funniest  part  of  it — says  he's  going  to 
start  a  horse-ranch." 

"  The  devil  !  Well,  he  can  afford  to  amuse  himself  ; 
but  it  does  seem  a  queer  thing  to  dump  Denver  comer- 
lots  into  a  canyon  a  thousand  feet  deep.  Hadn't  you 
better  get  out  an  inquisition  de  lunatico  inquirendo  and  have 
a  guardian  appointed  ?" 

"  How  would  I  go  at  it  ?"  queried  the  partner,  jocu- 
larly. "  I've  never  set  eyes  on  the  old  scoundrel,  and 
wouldn't  know  whom  to  have  the  papers  served  on. 
Queer,  isn't  it  ?  How  do  I  manage  to  do  his  business  ? 
Well,  I'll  tell  you.  He  picked  up  old  man  Van  Wyck, 
who  had  failed  somewhere  back  East,  and  came  out 
here  hoping  to  get  a  new  start.  He  was  a  good  business 
man,  but  utterly  broken  in  health  and  spirits  as  well  as 
in  estate.  He  was  working  as  bookkeeper  in  the  hotel 
where  Howgood  stopped  when  he  'first  landed,'  it 
seems  ;  just  dragging  along  on  nothing  and  anxious  for 
the  end.  Howgood  offered  him  a  house  rent-free  and  a 
salary  twice  as  big  as  he  was  getting  to  look  after  his 
affairs.  It  was  exactly  the  thing  the  old  man  was  best 
fitted  for.  The  job  was  an  easy  one,  and  he  was  grate- 
ful as  well  as  faithful.  I  suppose  that  was  aboiit  the 
best  investment  Howgood  ever  made,  and  he  has  made 
some  cracking  good  ones.  After  «.  while  he  made  Van 
Wyck's  wife  a  present  of  the  house  they  lived  in,  and 
ever  since  the  old  man  has  been  getting  along,  with 
Howgood's  help,  of  course,  mighty  well.  He  has  settled 
with  his  creditors  and  is  considered  fairly  well  off  now. 
He  says  he  knows  no  more  about  his  employer  than 
any  one  else.  Howgood  stays  with  them,  I  believe,  when 
in  the  city,  which  is  only  now  and  then,  but  has  never 


346  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

said  a  word  to  him  about  any  business  except  what  he 
leaves  in  his  charge.  If  the  old  man  knows  anything 
more,  you  couldn't  draw  it  out  of  him  with  wild  horses  ; 
and  I  don't  blame  him.  But  your  plan  wouldn't  work 
anyhow.  '  Old  Howgood  '  could  give  us  both  odds  in 
the  line  of  hard  sense  and  have  enough  left  to  '  bank  ' 
on  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  No  ;  the  only  thing  to  do  is 
to  go  and  buy  the  land  according  to  orders  and  charge 
him  for  the  service." 

"  With  commissions,  of  course,"  added  the  partner, 
with  a  laugh. 

"  Not  any  commissions  with  him  ;  I  tried  that  once." 

"Didn't  it  work?" 

*'  Not  much.  Van  Wyck  brought  me  a  sealed  note 
from  his  principal,  which  stated  that  he  had  observed  a 
charge  for  commissions  in  my  last  account — he  requires 
a  separate  account  for  each  transaction — that  while  will- 
ing to  pay  reasonable  fees,  he  declined  to  pay  commis- 
sions ;  and  if  1  did  not  wish  to  attend  to  his  business  on 
those  terms,  he  would  find  another  attorney.  Of  course, 
I  couldn't  let  him  slip,  and  it  would  be  folly  to  try  to 
work  any  fancy  charges  on  him." 

"  I  guess  it  wouldn't  pay,  that's  a  fact.  Is  that  the 
reason  you  are  so  close  about  his  business  ?" 

"  Oh,  no  ;  Van  Wyck  stipulated,  when  he  employed 
me,  that  I  should  always  attend  to  his  business  myself. 
He  said  Mr.  Howgood  did  not  wish  to  employ  a  firm, 
and  if  I  was  not  at  liberty  to  engage  myself  individually, 
preferred  not  to  retain  me.  I  thought  it  was  a  mere 
notion  and  so  agreed  to  it.  As  you  know,  he  has 
made  it  profitable  for  us." 

**  That  he  has.  Oh,  it  is  evident  that  no  court  would 
listen  to  a  charge  of  incapacity  against  such  a  man  ;  he 
is  a  little  too  sane,  if  anything." 


Tete  de  Lotip.  347 

The  partners  laughed  good-naturedly,  and  each  went 
on  with  the  work  he  had  in  hand. 

Thus  John  Howgood  secured  a  legal  status.  "  Old 
Howgood"  was  only  an  insignificant  incident  in  the 
curiously  indifferent  life  of  the  Queen  City  of  the  Plains. 
The  sun  kissed  the  snowy  mountains ;  the  sparkling 
river  dashed  quickly  past ;  the  water  trickled  along  the 
open  ditches  ;  the  sand  beat  against  the  panes,  and  the 
muffled  hum  of  her  busy  life  went  up  from  her  unecho- 
ing  streets.  Nobody  asked  who  John  Howgood  had 
been.  Everybody  knew  who  "  Old  Howgood "  was. 
He  was  accounted  an  honorable  man  ;  a  worthy  citi- 
zen ;  a  man  hard  to  entrap  ;  apt  to  succeed  in  what  he 
undertook  ;  having  the  devil's  luck  in  speculation,  and 
attending  strictly  to  his  own  business.  A  new  civiliza- 
tion spreads  the  mantle  of  charity  over  the  mistakes  of 
an  old  one  with  amazing  facility  and  unfeigned  kind- 
liness, and  "  strict  attention  to  one's  own  affairs " 
becomes  a  not  unimportant  element  of  good  repute  in 
such  a  community. 


CHAPTER  II, 


TETE     DE     LOUP. 


Tete  de  Loup  was  one  of  those  surprises  abounding  in 
the  great  table-land  out  of  which  the  Rocky  Mountains 
rise.  It  was  a  basin  with  sheer,  precipitous  sides,  half- 
way down  the  narrow  clefts  in  which  the  scraggly  pines 
crept  here  and  there  in  pointed  phalanxes,  as  if  seeking 
to  reach  the  black  waving  crests  that  stretched  upward 
from  the  bottom  in  a  vain  attempt  to  hide  the  gray, 
scarred  rocks,     Seen  froni  above^   Tete  de  Loup  wag . 


348  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

only  a  curious  widening  of  the  canyon's  walls,  with  a 
stunted  forest  growing  around  the  edges  and  a  mad 
river  dashing  through  it.  Seen  from  the  bottom,  it  was 
a  valley  five  miles  long,  and  half  as  wide,  with  a  narrow 
gorge  at  either  end  ;  a  belt  of  pines  about  the  sides, 
and  rich  pasture  on  either  bank.  Except  for  one  nar- 
row and  difficult  trail  it  was  inaccessible,  save  by  the 
river,  and  only  a  few  daring  explorers  had  ever  chosen 
that  dangerous  route.  When  the  region  was  surveyed 
it  was  declared  inaccessible  ;  its  length  and  breadth 
were  determined  by  tri  angulation,  and  it  was  duly 
made  a  part  of  two  townships  of  Range  Eight  of  the 
NM  Meridian  West,  on  the  map  of  the  national  domain. 
In  those  days,  it  was  almost  a  hundred  miles  from  the 
edge  of  civilization  as  the  crow  flies,  and  much  more  by 
any  practical  route,  though  a  broad  road,  which  con- 
nected two  great  **  parks,"  as  the  rifts  between  the 
mountain-ranges  are  termed,  ran  through  a  picturesque 
pass,  only  a  score  of  miles  away. 

The  surrounding  region  was  too  barren  even  for  the 
Indian  to  care  to  dispute  its  possession  seriously. 
Down  the  one  possible  path  into  the  sequestered  valley, 
years  before — just  after  the  wild  rush  to  Pike's  Peak — 
a  man  had  found  his  way,  bringing  a  mare  and  foal, 
and  here  he  had  remained.  Afterward,  he  had  added 
to  his  stock  a  couple  of  calves,  carrying  them  down  the 
narrow  path,  one  at  a  time,  slung  across  his  shoulders. 
How  he  became  possessed  of  them  he  never  thought  it 
necessary  to  explain.  He  built  a  rude  house  and  shelter 
for  his  stock  against  the  face  of  the  rock,  deftly  conceal- 
ing them  with  shrubs  and  vines,  which  he  planted  for 
the  purpose.  Back  under  the  cliff  stretched  a  roomy 
cavern,  along  which  a  mighty  torrent  had  some  time 
flowed,  now  dwindled  to  a  tiny  rill.  Here  the  stock 
was  hidden  whenever  concealment  was  necessary. 


Tete  de  Loup.  349 

He  called  the  valley — his  valley — Tete  de  Loup,  from 
some  fancied  resemblance  of  outline  to  a  wolf's  head. 
His  stock  had  increased  to  a  small  herd,  though  he  took 
care  that  it  should  not  grow  large  enough  to  awaken 
the  cupidity  of  any  beholder.  He  had  little  need  for 
caution.  In  all  the  time  he  had  been  there,  it  had  been 
visited  but  thrice.  A  little  band  of  Indians,  a  couple  of 
prospectors  and  a  party  of  explorers,  were  the  only  in- 
truders on  his  solitude.  None  of  these  tarried  long,  nor 
found  anything  to  induce  them  to  return. 

It  was  a  curious  life  the  owner  led,  going  and  coming 
at  pleasure,  his  stock  his  only  companions.  He  did  not 
seem  to  have  any  special  care  for  the  animals  he  raised. 
He  had  never  sold  any,  and  had  little  use  for  them  in  that 
remote  narrow  valley.  The  cattle  indeed  furnished  him 
with  milk  and  meat,  but  not  one  of  the  horses  had  ever 
been  up  the  difficult  trail.  Indeed,  it  was  not  absolutely 
certain  they  could  get  up  it. 

One  day  the  owner  of  Tete  de  Loup  found  a  stranger 
lying  by  the  road-side  in  the  pass,  fevered  and  delirious. 
His  horse  was  grazing  quietly  a  few  steps  away.  After 
some  hesitation  he  secured  the  animal,  and  without  any 
attempt  to  learn  the  identity  of  the  stranger,  placed  him 
in  the  saddle,  and  mounting  behind,  brought  him  to  his 
ranch.  It  was  a  case  of  that  form  of  typhoid,  known  in 
the  region  as  "mountain-fever."  It  was  a  remarkable 
thing  for  one  like  the  Hermit  of  Tete  de  Loup  to  do. 
Probably  the  stranger's  white  hair  won  upon  his  sym- 
pathy. 

Three  weeks  afterward,  the  man  had  so  far  recovered 
as  to  comprehend  his  surroundings  and  question  his 
rescuer.  He  found .  the  latter  to  be  a  recluse  of  that 
curious  French  type,  which  seeks  the  wilderness,  not 
merely  for  the  love  of  adventure  or  greed  of  possession, 
but  as  a  refuge  from  misfortune,  disgrace  or  disappoint- 


350  A   Sou  of  Old  Harry. 

ment.  In  lieu  of  society,  he  had  made  the  animals  he 
reared  his  companions.  They  knew  him,  and  flocked 
around  him  at  his  call.  By  accident  he  had  become 
possessed  of  a  stallion  wounded  in  one  of  the  engage- 
ments with  the  Indians,  and  left  to  die  of  his  hurt. 
Brought  here  with  difficulty,  the  high-bred  animal  had 
left  his  stamp  upon  the  herd,  giving  it  a  quality  which 
the  owner  fully  appreciated,  and  of  which  he  was  very 
proud.  It  was  one  of  those  rare  instances  in  which  the 
blood  of  the  thoroughbred  mingles  harmoniously  with 
that  of  the  desert-born,  the  offspring  showing  the  form 
and  action  of  the  sire,  without  losing  the  toughness  and 
endurance  of  the  wiry  dam,  the  product  of  centuries  of 
wildness  and  hardship  with  the  blood  of  the  Castilian 
barb  as  its  starting-point.  Already  a  half-dozen  young- 
sters attested  the  excellence  of  the  new  type. 

One  day,  the  owner  called  his  little  herd  about  the 
door  of  his  cabin,  where  the  stranger,  yet  pale  and  weak, 
wrapped  in  robes  and  blankets,  sat  drinking  in  long 
draughts  of  the  bracing  air — absorbing,  as  the  convales- 
cent seems  to  do,  the  sunshine — and,  while  the  horses 
bit  and  kicked  in  jealous  rivalry  for  his  favor,  told  his 
guest  their  story. 

The  stranger  smiled  as  his  eye  fell  upon  the  stallion, 
a  long,  round-barreled  bay,  who,  despite  some  stiffness, 
the  result  of  wounds  and  age,  was  yet  a  horse  of  splen- 
did style,  with  an  eye  full  of  fire — a  masterful  patriarch 
who  showed  no  sign  of  yielding  his  place  even  to  the 
best  of  his  offspring.  He  listened  to  the  owner's  esti- 
mate of  the  value  of  the  youngsters  with  a  twinkle  in  his 
eye,  and  when,  finally,  the  horses  had  wandered  off, 
obedient  to  their  master's  words  and  gesture  of  dis- 
missal, began  to  whistle — a  soft,  quick -recurring  repeti- 
tion of  a  familiar  night-bird's  call.  The  owner  of  the  ranch 
turned  and  looked  at  him  with  a  smile.     The  notes  evi- 


Tete  de  Loup,  351 

dently  awakened  pleasant  memories.  The  old  horse,  a 
hundred  yards  away,  halted,  threw  up  his  head,  and 
uttered  a  shrill,  piercing  neigh.  Still  the  quick,  even 
call  came  from  the  cabin-door,  echoing  sharply  from 
side  to  side  across  the  canyon.  Suddenly  the  horse 
wheeled  and  dashed  back  to  the  hut,  uttering  joyful 
neighs  of  recognition. 

The  stranger  extended  his  hand  familiai*ly,  and  the 
horse,  after  one  sniff  of  inquiry,  stretched  out  his  dark 
muzzle,  now  plentifully  streaked  with  gray,  to  receive 
the  proffered  caress. 

"  Knows  you  !"  said  the  owner,  his  black  eyes  spark- 
ling under  the  beetling  brows  with  astonishment  and 
delight.     "  Great  horse!" 

His  companion  smiled.  Withdrawing  his  hand  from 
the  drooping  head,  he  snapped  his  fingers  and  a  hard 
black  hoof  was  laid  in  his  extended  palm. 

"  Good  !  Good  !"  cried  the  owner,  clapping  his  hands. 
"  Great  horse  !     Great  horse  !" 

"  What  will  you  take  for  him  ?" 

"  Your  horse — your  horse  !"  answered  the  recluse. 
"Not  mine." 

"  What  do  you  think  he  is  worth  ?" 

"  Old  horse — not  worth  much.     How  old  ?" 

"  He  has  seen  twenty,  but  he  is  worth  a  hundred  for 
every  year." 

"  Two  thousan'  dollar !"  exclaimed  the  owner,  in 
amazement, 

"  All  of  that.  He  is  known  all  over  the  country  as 
one  of  the  greatest  horses  that  ever  lived.  That  is 
Belmont's  Abdallah." 

"  I  never  heard  of  him,"  said  the  other,  dubiously. 

Then  the  stranger  told  the  horse's  history,  and 
descanted  upon  the  probable  value  of  his  progeny.  The 
eyes  of  the  recluse  flashed  ;  he  threw  back  his  head  and 


352  A  Son  of  Old  Harry, 

ran  his  thick,  stumpy  fingers  through  his  hair  as  he 
listened. 

"  You — you  will  take  him — away  ?"  nodding  his  head 
at  the  horse,  which  was  licking  the  stranger's  hand. 

"O  no  ;  he  is  yours." 

"  I  s'ould  be  reech,  vare  reech — now  I  know  he  is  so 
— so  great." 

"  But  yotl  are  rich,"  with  a  gesture  which  included  the 
valley. 

"  No,  no,"  answered  the  other,  shaking  his  head.  "  I 
no  keep  him.    Give  him  up — go  away — away  !" 

The  stranger  eyed  him  keenly  for  an  instant,  and  then 
sent  the  horse  away  with  an  impatient  word. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?"  he  asked,  abruptly. 

^^  Mon  nam?"  repeated  the  recluse,  with  a  start. 
"Jacques — Jacques — Combien,"  he  added  with  a  twinkle 
of  the  deep-set  eyes. 

The  stranger  laughed  good-humoredly. 

"  And  you — "  he  asked,  **  what  name  have  you  ?" 

"  Jack,  too — Jack  Howgood." 

"How-good? — Com-bien  ?  Good!"  said  the  other, 
significantly.    **  Vare  good  !" 

Then  they  both  laughed.  They  understood  each 
other  without  exchanging  confidences.  That  is  the  way 
with  men.  They  had  liked  each  other  from  the  first. 
Now  they  were  friends.  Never  since  he  had  come  to 
Tete  de  Loup  had  the  recluse  felt  loneliness  until  the 
stranger  manifested  a  desire  to  depart.  His  one  fear 
had  been  that  others  would  come  and  dispossess  him,  or 
seek  to  take  from  him  a  part  of  the  little  rock-ribbed 
valley — not  that  he  was  greedy,  but  he  wished  to  be 
alone — and  he  loved  Tete  de  Loup.  The  explorers,  the 
prospectors,  even  the  Indians,  he  had  regarded  with 
keen  jealousy — the  latter  less  than  the  others,  because 
the  inaccessibility  of  the  valley  had  unfitted  it  for  their 


Tcte  de  Loup.  353 

purposes.  The  prospectors  he  had  watched  unceasingly 
while  they  dug  and  washed,  studying  the  seams  in  the 
rocks,  and  the  pebbles  in  the  river-bed.  If  they  had 
discovered  anything  worth  their  while — if  they  had 
driven  a  single  stake,  or  showed  any  inclination  to  return, 
he  would  have  killed  them.  Since  the  government  sur- 
vey had  been  made  he  had  been  in  mortal  terror  lest 
some  one  should  "  enter  "  the  land,  and  so  bar  him  from 
th^  enjoyment  of  his  valley.  And  now,  strange  enough, 
he  wished  this  white-haired,  white-bearded  man,  who 
was  yet  young — much  younger  than  himself,  he  judged, 
to  stay  with  him.  Civilization  was  crowding  upon  him. 
He  was  afraid  of  its  forms.  He  knew  nothing  of  his 
rights  and  had  a  vague  terror  that  he  would  be  driven 
out.    Perhaps  this  man  might  help  him. 

"  But  you  will  come  again  ?"  he  asked. 

The  other  shook  his  head. 

The  owner  scowled.  He  was  not  angry,  only  trying 
to  think.  He  was  a  man  of  powerful  physique,  not  tall, 
but  compact  and  strong.  His  face  was  swarthy  ;  his 
beard  and  hair  dark  and  stiff.  It  did  not  curl,  neither 
was  it  straight,  but  lay  in  a  close,  wavy  mat  on  brow 
and  cheek.  There  were  white  threads  in  it  here  and 
there.  His  forehead  bulged  over  the  eyes,  as  is  so  fre- 
quently the  case  with  men  of  his  descent,  and  the  heavy 
brows  so  shaded  the  great,  black  eyes  as  to  give  them 
almost  a  sinister  appearance..  He  spoke  English  fairly 
well,  but  with  a  trace  of  the  Canadian  patois  in  his  tones, 
something  in  his  phrasing  also.  He  had  said  nothing 
about  the  reasons  which  induced  him  to  hide  away  in 
Tete  de  Loup.  The  other  had  not  asked,  neither  had 
he  spoken  of  himself  or  his  circumstances. 

"  See  here,"  the  owner  of  the  ranch  broke  out,  after  a 
long  silence  ;  "  you  got  money  ?" 


354  ^    ^'^"'  ^f  ^^'■^  Harry. 

"  A  little,"  smiling.  "  I  was  aboi;t  to  ask  what  I 
should  pay  you  ?" 

"  Pay  me  ?  Nothing — not  a  cent  !  That  would  be 
insult !"  seeing  the  other  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket, 
"  This  is  what  I  mean  :    you  see  this  ?" 

He  waved  his  short  arm  and  strong,  grimy  fingers 
toward  the  plain, 

"  The  gov'ment  want  it ;  the  surveyor  come  to  take 
it.  I  see  'em  up  yonder  measure — squint.  I  kijow 
Jacques  Combien  have  to  get  out  some  time.  He  hold 
one  hundred  sixty  acres — that's  all.  That  what  ze  Den- 
ver lawyer  say.     How  many  here  ?" 

"A  thousand  or  more." 

"  More — more  !  Two  thousand — more  yet  !  Now, 
how  many  come  in  ?  Five — ten — hundred  people  !  Sh  ! 
Sacre  !  Who  live  here,  then  ?  Where  my  horses — my 
cattle — my — ?"  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  thrust 
his  open  palm  away  from  him  with  a  gesture  of  infinite 
aversion.     "What  'come  of  Jacques,  then  ?" 

"  Well  ?" 

"  How  much  it  cost  to  buy  it  all  ?" 

**  Probably  five  or  six  thousand  dollars." 

"  Desso — desso  !  Where  Jacques  Combien  get  five 
thousand  dollars  ?" 

"  It  is  quite  a  sum." 

"  Desso  !  Well,  dis  what  I  say.  You  buy — buy  it  all 
— then  I  give  you  half.  No  !  Two-thirds — three-quar- 
ters the  stock  !  You  come  here  ;  we  raise  horses  ;  sell 
— grow  rich,  have  good  time — all  'lone.  No  ?  Don't 
say  no  !" 

And  this  man  wanted  to  be  rich  !  It  did  not  seem 
strange  when  he  told  the  reason.  He  had  sworn  never 
to  go  back  to  his  native  village  until  he  was  richer  than 
any  man  in  it.  He  had  been  unfortunate ';  had  lost  his 
little  property — and  had  hidden  here  in   despair.     He 


Tete  de  Loitp.  355 

did  not  doubt  that  the  girl  to  whom  he  had  made  this 
boast  had  married  another.  Nevertheless,  he  wished 
to  return — to  show  that  his  boast  had  not  been  vain. 
Perhaps  he  thought  there  might  be  another  ;  he  did  not 
say  so. 

So  John  Howgood  and  Jacques  Combien  became  part- 
ners in  Tete  de  Loup — the  one  to  have  the  east  side  of 
the  river,  the  other  the  west,  and  the  stock  to  be  owned 
in  ..common.  John  Howgood  ordered  his  lawyer  to 
secure  the  title,  and  Jacques  Combien,  whose  squatter's 
right  he  had  bought  for  a  sum  which  made  that  worthy 
feel  himself  rich  already,  started  to  redeem  his  boast. 
But  he  never  reached  his  native  village.  No  doubt  his 
heart  had  grown  tender  in  the  long  sojourn  in  the  wil- 
derness, or  the  sound  of  his  native  tongue  was  too  great 
a  temptation  to  be  resisted.  At  any  rate,  travelling 
with  his  new  friend,  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  Louise, 
the  sprightly  French  maid  who  waited  upon  the  unfor- 
tunate sister  of  John  Howgood,  and  when  he  returned 
to  Tete  de  Loup,  she  came  with  him  as  his  wife. 

In  the  meantime,  the  little  valley  had  been  trans- 
formed. A  road  of  easy  grade  had  been  blasted  out  of 
the  sheer  wall.  A  bridge  spanned  the  river.  A  com- 
fortable house  stood  on  the  site  of  the  old  cabin  ;  a 
more  pretentious  one  on  the  other  side  of  the  river. 
Stalls  and  paddocks  were  prepared,  and  quarters  pro- 
vided for  grooms  and  laborers.  Some  new  stock  had 
made  its  appearance,  too.  Brood-mares,  brought  over 
the  plains  from  the  blue-grass  pastures  of  Kentucky, 
whose  fine  lines  and  high  spirits  attested  the  correct- 
ness of  the  pedigrees,  which  avouched  their  descent 
from  great  names  of  the  turf.  The  Tete  de  Loup 
Stock  Ranch  was  established.  Its  appointments  were 
not  luxurious,  but  they  were  serviceable.  Its  advan- 
tages were   abundance   of  the  best  pasturage,  water, 


356  A   Soil  of  Old  Ha7^ry. 

shelter,  and  a  rare,  dry  atmosphere.  No  wonder  a  type, 
celebrated  not  only  for  its  performances,  but  for  temper 
and  endurance,  has  sprung  from  that  sunny  mountain 
cove. 

"  Ah,  money  can  do  anything  !"  said  Jacques  Combien, 
as  he  surveyed  the  result. 

It  had  not  required  very  much  money,  but  from  that 
hour  the  simple-hearted  fellow  strove  for  riches,  not 
meanly,  but  honestly  and  manfully — and  fortune  smiled 
upon  his  efforts.  The  ranch  has  been  profitable — more 
profitable  than  many  of  the  ventures  which  lured  men 
into  the  mountains  by  thousands,  a  few  years  later^ 
with  the  glivtering  promise  of  boundless  argentiferous 
reward. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    BALM    OF    SOLITUDE. 

It  was  to  Tete  de  Loup  that  I  brought  her^  and  began 
in  more  serious  fashion  the  task  to  which  I  had  devoted 
myself,  of  joining,  if  I  might,  the  edges  of  her  dual 
consciousness,  or,  more  properly,  the  restoration  of  that 
consciousness  of  which  the  key  had  been  lost.  It  was 
no  light  or  agreeable  undertaking.  My  very  love  made 
it  all  the  more  distressing.  She  was  in  the  fullness  of  a 
beauty  always  rare,  and  in  this  case  the  more  trans- 
cendant,  because  the  weakened  brain  had  relieved  her 
from]  everything  like  care,  and  prevented  any  of  that 
exhaustion  of  nervous  energy  which,  quicker  than  any- 
thing else,  brings  age.  Her  hair  was  of  that  tint  which 
lies  midway  between  the   silver's  whiteness   and  the 


The  Balm  of  Solitude.  357 

gleam  of  beaten  gold  ;  her  face,  calm  and  peaceful,  had 
the  innocent  glow  of  girlhood  with  the  fullness  of 
ripened  womanhood.  Her  form,  developed  without 
restraint,  had  the  suppleness  and  grace  we  are  accus- 
tomed to  attribute  to  tropical  climes. 

The  task  seemed  hopeless.  None  of  the  eminent 
specialists  I  consulted  gave  me  any  encouragement. 
Yet  I  did  hope.  A  thousand  times  1  despaired,  yet 
never  ceased  to  hope  again  on  the  morrow.  I  had 
learned  that  life  in  town  was  not  good  for  her.  New 
faces  troubled  her.  Varied  surroundings  seemed  to 
make  her  fancy  more  flighty  and  her  thought  less 
coherent.  Somehow  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  same- 
ness of  Tete  de  Loup  would  be  restful  and  healing  to 
her.  There  was  only  the  sky,  the  level,  silent  valley, 
the  gray,  circling  walls  with  the  dark,  woody  fringe 
above,  the  flashing  river  and  the  white  mountain  peaks 
in  the  distance.  There  would  be  horses,  it  is  true,  but 
they  would  be  the  same  ones  all  the  time ;  and  of 
human  beings  there  would  be  only  myself,  Jacques  and 
his  wife,  to  whom  she  was  much  attached  in  her  fickle 
way,  and  the  grooms  and  laborers,  of  whom  she  would 
only  now  and  then  get  a  glimpse.  This  was  to  be  our 
world,  and  from  its  unvarying  sameness,  its  silence,  seclu- 
sion and  restfulness,  I  hoped  for  much — or,  rather,  I 
tried  to  hope. 

I  did  not  conceal  from  myself  that,  whatever  the 
result  might  be,  my  life — my  new  life,  and  all  that  it 
might  give  of  comfort,  attention  and  entertainment 
belonged  to  her.  No  matter  whether  she  appreciated 
my  efforts,  comprehended  my  devotion,  or  even  recog- 
nized my  presence  or  not  ;  I  was  bound  to  her  by  a  tie 
stronger  than  even  love  could  forge — the  obligation  to 
care  for  this  frail  consciousness  which  I  had  torn  from 
its  rnoorings   and   assumed   the   sole  responsibility  of 


358  A   Son  of  Old  Harry. 

its  direction.  Already  nearly  two  years  had  elapsed 
since  Fate  had  thrown  her  into  my  arms  and  sealed  the 
deed  of  wrongful  appropriation  by  hurling  us  both  into 
oblivion.  Not  only  was  she  lost  to  the  world,  but  the 
world  was  lost  to  her.  Already  she  had  forgotten 
her  husband's  existence.  Allusion  to  him  no  longer 
provoked  any  show  of  resentment,  but  onh/  a  glance 
of  uncomprehending  surprise.  Doctor  Talcott's  name 
had  long  since  ceased  to  awaken  any  sign  of  recognition. 
A  change  of  attendants  made  her  uneasy  for  a  day  or 
two  ;  in  a  few  days,  or  weeks  at  farthest,  their  names 
were  forgotten.  If  they  returned  she  showed  no  signs 
of  recognition.  New  surroundings  seemed  to  excite  her 
wonder,  but  she  expressed  no  regret  for  those  she  had 
left.  If  she  saw  them  again  she  had  no  remembrance 
of  them.  There  seemed,  therefore,  little  room  for  hope 
— whether  I  did  hope  I  hardly  know.  At  any  rate,  I 
determined  to  devote  myself  unreservedly  to  her.  I 
thought  it  my  plain  duty.  It  seems  strange  that  one 
like  me  should  talk  of  duty,  and  surely  it  was  not  so 
great  a  thing  to  consecrate  a  useless  life  to  enlivening 
one  to  whom  each  day's  trifles  were  all  there  was  of 
joy  or  sorrow,  that  it  need  have  so  grave  a  designa- 
tion ;  but  I  was  unable  to  find  any  other  name  for  the 
impulse. 

This  is  why  I  bought  Tete  de  Loup  and  brought  her 
there.  If  I  could  not  restore  the  lost  consciousness,  I 
judged  that  I  could  there  better  bestow  upon  her  that 
care  which  did  so  much  to  make  her  simple  life  peace- 
ful and  contented.  There  was  no  doubt  that  she  enjoyed 
my  companionship  more  than  that  of  any  other  person. 
She  remembered  me  after  long  absences,  or  perhaps  it 
would  be  more  correct  to  say,  became  acquainted  with 
me  after  such  absences  more  readily  than  with  any  one 
else.     She  called  me  Jack — sometimes  Jack  Howgood, 


The  Balm  of  Solitude.  359 

seeming  to  take  a  childish  pleasure  in  linking  my 
name  with  the  phrase  of  acknowledgment  from  which 
it  was  really  derived. 

"  Jack  !"  she  would  say — "  Jack,  how  good — Jack  How- 
good !" 

Then  she  would  laugh  gleefully  at  the  dimly  compre- 
hended ambiguity,  and  repeat  it  over  and  over  again 
with  the  peculiar  tendency  to  iteration  which  charac- 
terizes persons  of  weak  intellect.  Still  it  was  apparent 
from  her  tone  and  manner  that  she  did  not  consciously 
associate  me  with  that  other  "  Jack "  of  whom  her 
errant  fancy  was  always  full.  There  was  something 
very  touching  in  her  reiteration  of  this  name  in  varying 
tones  under  different  conditions.  When  she  was  bright- 
est and  happiest  she  repeated  it  hardly  above  her 
breath,  in  the  intervals  of  conversation  or  sitting  alone 
in  calm  content. 

"Jack,  Jack,  Jack!"  she  would  whisper  rapidly  to 
herself;  then  aloud:  "What  a  pleasant  day!"  Then 
in  a  whisper  again  :  "Jack,  Jack,  Jack  !" 

But  when  she  was  ill,  or  anything  had  gone  wrong 
with  her,  or  one  of  those  dark  days  was  on  her  which 
come  periodically  to  the  insane,  the  word  became  a  wail 
whose  sadness  pierced  the  dullest  heart.  I  have  often 
seen  a  groom  fling  up  his  hands  and  flee  beyond  hearing 
of  her  voice  when  on  such  occasions  the  plaintive 
"Jack  !  Jack  !"  echoed  through  the  sequestered  valley. 
I  noticed  after  a  time  that  these  gloomy  intervals 
became  less  frequent,  while  the  cheerful,  chattering 
whisper  was  almost  constant  with  her,  as  if  "Jack" 
was  becoming  the  echo  of  a  hidden  but  pleasant  con- 
sciousness instead  of  a  sad  and  despairing  one.  There 
was  recompense  if  not  encouragement  in  this.  It  was 
more  than  my  broken  life  was  worth  if  my  presence 
could  make  cheerful  rather  than  sad  the  void  in  which 


360  A  Son  of  Old  Haj-ry. 

she  seemed  to  live — for  there  was  all  the  time  a  seeming 
consciousness,  a  something  vainly  struggling  for 
expression,  of  which  the  weak  and  fleeting  intelligence 
she  displayed  was  only  a  glimmer,  like  the  corona 
which  in  a  total  eclipse  tells  of  the  sun's  presence, 
though  the  luminary  itself  is  hid. 

The  idea  that  there  was  a  latent  consciousness 
beneath  this  external,  superficial  one,  capable  of  receiv- 
ing intense  and  lasting  impressions  was  confirmed,  in 
my  opinion  at  least,  by  the  fact  that  she  seemed  to 
have  as  just  an  apprehension  of  natural  laws  as  anyone. 
She  was  careful  in  approaching  the  edge  of  a  precipice  ; 
she  clearly  understood  the  fact  that  it  would  be  peril- 
ous to  fall  into  the  river,  and,  though  fond  of  watching 
it  carry  away  what  was  thrown  in,  was  extremely 
cautious  in  approaching  its  banks.  So,  too,  while  she 
loved  to  watch  the  firelight,  she  never  manifested  any 
inclination  to  trifle  with  combustion.  The  same  was 
true  in  reference  both  as  to  propriety  and  taste  in 
dress.  Though  she  seemed  to  have  no  idea  about 
increasing  or  repainng  her  wardrobe,  yet  she  was  very 
positive  in  her  preferences,  both  as  to  color  and  texture, 
and  was  not  only  able  to  clothe  herself  but  did  so 
becomingly  and  tastefully,  according  to  seasons  and 
conditions. 

Of  course,  some  of  these  things  may  be  said  to  have 
been  instinctive,  and  others  were  no  doubt  due  to  the 
excellent  training  to  which  she  had  been  subjected 
immediately  after  recovering  from  her  first  aberration 
of  mind.  But  an  incident  occurred  during  our  removal 
to  Tete  de  Loup  which  strongly  confirmed  my  view  of 
her  condition,  though  it  gave  no  hint  of  any  practicable 
method  of  reaching  or  awakening  this  dormant  con- 
sciousness. The  horses  attached  to  our  carriage  took 
fright  while  we  were  descending  a  narrow  gorge,  and 


The  Babn  of  Solittidc.  361 

ran  with  great  violence  to  the  bottom.  A  dozen  times 
we  were  in  the  greatest  peril  of  being  thrown  over  the 
precipice,  but  by  good  fortune  we  escaped  without  seri- 
ous injury.  She  was  utterly  unstrung  with  terror  when 
I  lifted  her  out,  and  from  that  moment  had  an  almost 
unconquerable  aversion,  not  for  a  horse,  but  for  a  car- 
riage. Indeed,  she  never  afterward  entered  one  with- 
out a  shudder.  It  seems  a  cruel  thing  to  say,  but  this 
discovery  gave  me  great  pleasure.  She  made  the  rest 
of  the  journey  on  horseback,  and  her  enjoyment  of  the 
mountain  scenery  and  the  quiet  loveliness  of  our  evening 
camps  had  the  effect  of  transforming  our  trip  into  a 
loitering  stroll  along  the  winding  mountain  trails. 

At  Tete  de  Loup  we  were  together  all  day  long.  We 
rode,  talked,  sang.  I  remembered  her  old  favorites,  and 
read  over  and  over  again  to  her  the  same  books.  She 
was  especially  fond  of  the  Bible,  and  never  tired  of 
listening  to  portions  of  it.  The  thought  of  eternity 
— endless  duration — seemed  to  be  the  one  abstract  idea 
which  continued  to  hold  a  place  in  her  consciousness. 
She  had  no  conception  of  death.  The  fact  that  a  bird, 
which  I  shot,  would  not  fly  when  she  tossed  it  up, 
troubled  her  so  much  that  I  took  care  that  she  should 
not  again  witness  anything  of  the  kind.  Immensity 
however — boundlessness,  whether  in  space  or  time, 
though  said  to  be  an  incomprehensible  idea,  evidently 
impressed  her  consciousness  very  deeply.  The  sky,  the 
mountains,  the  mystical  boundlessness  of  the  starlit 
night,  all  soothed  and  hushed,  but  at  the  same  time  ex- 
alted her.  The  idea  of  interminable  duration  seemed  to 
have  the  same  effect.  It  was  evident  that  it  touched  a 
deeper,  more  responsive  chord  of  her  hidden  nature 
than  any  other.  "  Forever  and  forever,  amen,"  she 
would  whisper  with  solemn  ecstasy,  whenever  a  word 
importing  endless  duration  occurred  in  our  reading.    I 


vD 


62  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 


tried  a  thousand  times  to  enlarge  this  crevice,  through 
which  a  beam  of  light  from  her  past  seemed  to  find  its 
way,  but  in  vain. 

I  suppose  there  must  have  been  other  indications  of 
improvement  during  the  years  that  followed,  but  I  had 
long  since  lost  hope,  and  so  failed  to  note  them.  I  had 
almost  forgotten  to  repine,  and  came  to  regard  the  de- 
votion of  my  time  and  energies  to  securing  the  comfort 
of  this  pitiful  half -life,  not  merely  as  a  deserved  penance, 
but  a  not  altogether  disagreeable  duty. 

It  was  a  peaceful,  quiet  life  we  led  upon  our  ranch. 
The  horses  and  their  care  were  the  only  things  we  had 
to  break  the  uneventful  days'  monotony.  It  would  be 
difficult  to  say  which  derived  most  pleasure  from  our 
occupation,  Jacques  Combien,  myself,  or  the  lovely 
woman  who  was  always  a  looker-on  and  often  a  partici- 
pant. It  did  not  once  occur  to  me  that  the  eagerness 
with  which  she  waited  for  the  time  to  come  when  she 
might  mount  each  colt  in  turn  was  of  itself  evidence  of 
an  improved  mental  condition. 

We  trained  the  Tete  de  Loup  horses  naturally.  They 
were  never  broken  ;  we  found  nothing  to  break.  They 
inherited  docility,  good  temper,  the  desire  to  do  what 
was  required  of  them,  to  outdo  each  other  and  to  win 
favor  by  excelling.  That  these  qualities  characterize 
the  well-bred  horse,  and  are  both  |heriiable  and  culti- 
vatable,  there  can  be  no  doubt. 

The  history  of  the  horse  is  full  of  suggestions  to  the 
owner  who  desires  to  promote  his  excellence  and  secure 
further  development.  There  is  doubtless  much  in  soil, 
climate,  food,  and  what  is  called  training. 

The  soil,  climate  and  rich  food  of  the  British  Islands 
unquestionably  contribute  largely  to  the  early  develop- 
ment of  the  English  thoroughbred,  as  also  for  his  early 
decay.     So  the   desert  air  and  scanty  vegetation    are 


The  Balm  of  Solitude.  363 

largely  responsible  for  the  lack  of  size  and  the  remark- 
able endurance  of  the  Arabian.  But  the  influences  which 
make  the  Arab  horse,  after  all  our  boasted  scientific 
methods,  unapproachable  in  the  most  desirable  qualities 
a  horse  can  possess,  are  not  dependent  upon  climate, 
food,  or  what  we  term  care.  He  is  but  poorly  fed,  badly 
groomed — and  never  broken.  From  the  day  he  is  foaled 
until  he  dies,  at  an  age  the  English  thoroughbred  rarely 
attains,  he  is  the  associate  of  man.  His  master  pets  him  ; 
the  children  play  with  him  ;  the  women  fondle  him. 
He  is  to  the  Arab  tent  what  a  pet  dog  is  to  his  master's 
apartments — a  privileged  character  who,  if  not  invited 
m,  watches  the  portal  in  perfect  confidence  that  whoever 
may  come  out  will  be  a  friend  and  familiar. 

The  English  thoroughbred  is  a  wild  brute,  tamed  and 
broken — compelled  to  serve  through  fear.  This,  indeed, 
is  the  general  relation  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  toward  infer- 
iors, whether  brute  or  human.  Power  is  the  scepter  of 
his  dominion.  He  never  persuades,  but  breaks  or  kills. 
It  matters  not  whether  it  be  a  man,  a  people,  a  race  or 
a  brute — the  method  is  always  the  same.  The  French, 
by  treatment  approaching  the  Arab's  in  gentleness,  have 
developed  the  intelligent  and  reliable  Norman,  which  in 
the  hands  of  our  American  breeders  is  fast  retrograding 
again  into  savagery.  So  everywhere  it  will  be  seen  that 
what  may  be  termed  the  moral  qualities  of  the  horse 
depend  almost  entirely  upon  the  moral  qualities  of  those 
who  rear  and  train  him. 

The  broncho  of  the  plains  is  undoubtedly  of  gentle 
blood,  being  descended  from  the  Spanish  barb,  which 
approached  nearer  to  his  master  in  familiar  association 
than  did  the  horse  of  any  other  European  nation  of  that 
time.  His  transportation  to  this  country  in  their  little 
crowded  caravels  for  use  in  conquest  is  evidence  of  this. 
Only  a  people  accustomed  to  intimate  association  with 


364  A  Son  of  Old  Harry, 

the  horse  could  have  transported  him  successfully  in 
this  manner.  Yet  the  broncho  has  lost  all  trace  of  con- 
fidence in  man,  not  merely  by  generations  of  wildness 
and  unrestraint,  but  by  the  barbarity  of  successive  gen- 
erations of  Indian  masters. 

The  brutality  of  the  English  groom  and  the  formality 
of  the  English  gentleman  are  reflected  in  the  vicious- 
ness  and  stiffness  of  the  English  horse.  Neither  groom 
nor  master  usually  cares  anything  for  the  temper,  com- 
fort or  intelligence  of  the  horse,  but  is  only  desirous 
that  he  should  be  amenable  to  orders  and  perform  the 
tasks  he  is  assigned.  Fortunately  for  the  American 
horse,  we  are,  so  far  as  this  noblest  of  our  dumb  animals 
is  concerned,  growing  away  from  our  English  inheri- 
tance. The  horse  is  more  his  master's  friend  and  less 
the  mere  instrument  of  his  pleasure  in  America  than  in 
England.  Consequently,  American  horses  of  the  better 
class  are  less  frequently  vicious,  more  docile  and  longer- 
lived  than  the  denizens  of  English  stables. 

These  things  are  especially  true  of  the  southern  part 
of  the  country,  and  particularly  of  the  blue-grass  region 
of  Kentucky,  where  the  kindness  shown  the  foal  is  quite 
as  important  an  element  of  their  future  achievements 
as  the  quality  of  the  food  they  eat.  For  the  moral 
quality  is  almost  as  important  in  a  horse  as  in  a  man. 
In  the  breeding  of  trotters  especially  it  is  necessary  that 
this  fact  should  be  kept  in  mind,  since  with  them  not 
only  speed  but  the  faculty  of  self-restraint  are  essential 
to  the  highest  success — nerve  as  well  as  muscle.  Of  the 
great  names  on  the  trotting  turf  to-day,  almost  every 
one  of  the  greatest  has  been  the  daily  companion  of  a 
man  or  of  a  family,  who  not  only  prized  but  loved  the 
proud  and  happy  recipient  of  their  attentions. 

We  are  learning — not  as  fast  as  we  might,  but  surely 
— that  the  most  valuable  qualities  of  the  horse — those 


The  Balm  of  Solitude.  365 

which  will  always  command  the  best  and  readiest  mar- 
ket— can  only  be  developed  by  constant  care,  gentle- 
ness and  appreciative  familiarity.  It  is  safe  to  say  that 
such  treatment  has  been  an  appreciable  element  of  the 
value  at  least  of  nine-tenths  of  the  horses  which  have 
brought  ten  thousand  dollars  or  upward,  and  of  ninety- 
nine-hundredths  of  those  who  have  doubled  that  sum 
for  their  owners. 

There  is  little  doubt  that  the  finest  type  of  horse  in 
America,  like  the  finest  type  in  the  old  world,  will  come 
from  the  plains.  Sand,  sunshine  and  a  certain  degree 
of  aridness  give  the  best  hoofs,  the  best  muscles,  greater 
endurance  and  greater  longevity.  But  the  perfect 
American  horse  will  be  developed,  not  by  the  whole- 
sale breeder  with  the  costly  training-stables,  but  by  the 
American  boy  who  feeds  and  fondles  his  weanling,  and 
prizes  him  not  merely  for  his  money  value  but  for  his 
moral  qualities — when  we  become  not  a  nation  of  fast 
drivers  and  race-goers  but  of  horse  lovers.  The  horse 
needs  not  to  be  broken  ;  he  is  no  longer  ferax  natures  j 
he  needs  to  be  civilized  and  taught  to  believe  in  the  civ- 
ilization of  his  owner. 

These  were  the  principles  applied  at  Tete  de  Loup. 
Every  colt  felt  the  touch  of  some  kindly  hand  every 
day  from  the  time  he  was  foaled  until  he  left  our  pos- 
session, and  learned  to  submit  himself  to  human  direc- 
tion and  control,  not  because  of  fear,  but  because  he 
knew  it  was  kindly.  A  horse  so  trained  may,  indeed, 
forget  his  training  and  break  away  from  restraint,  if  he 
loses  confidence  in  the  decision  or  capacity  of  his  driver. 
So,  too,  he  may  be  made  wild  with  fear  or  pain,  or  the 
mere  love  of  rivalry  may  make  him  oblivious  to 
attempted  restraint,  as  in  the  case  of  those  who  were 
the  unconscious  cause  of  my  present  condition  ;  but  he 
will  be  many  times  less  liable  to  any  of  these  defects 


366  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

than  a  horse  which  has  been  "  broken  "  and  taught  to 
yield  through  fear.  "  Rareyism "  was  a  scientific 
method  of  teaching  vicious  animals  that  man  is  their 
superior  in  power.  As  long  as  we  rely  on  fear  as  the 
controlling  impulse  of  the  horse-nature,  this  method  is, 
perhaps,  better  than  any  other ;  but  even  observant 
horse-men,  who  believe  in  the  doctrine  of  force  as 
devoutly  as  any,  have  noted  that  the  resultant  condi- 
tion of  absolute  submissiveness  is  not  favorable  to  the 
best  achievement.  The  truth  is  that  hopelessness,  the 
consciousness  that  he  is  purely  and  solely  the  creature 
of  another's  will,  is  just  as  bad  for  a  horse  as  for  a  man. 
If  well  trained  he  is  willing  to  obey,  but  to  obtain  the 
best  results  his  work  must  always  be  an  act  of  conscious, 
willing  obedience,  not  of  passive  submissiveness. 

The  horse  should  yield  himself  to  his  driver's  will 
because  he  has  confidence  in  him,  not  because  he  knows 
he  cannot  successfully  resist  him.  The  mares  which 
the  Prophet  selected  for  his  stud  because  they  turned 
back  from  ♦"he  water's  edge  despite  their  long  depriva- 
tion, at  the  sound  of  the  trumpet,  did  not  do  it  because 
they  feared  to  disobey,  but  because  their  love  of  the 
wild  route  of  battle  was  stronger  even  than  their  rag- 
ing thirst.  That  there  are  horses — just  as  there  are 
men — who  are  not  susceptible  to  influences  of  this  char- 
acter, I  do  not  deny.  There  are  no  doubt  some  that 
are  inherently  vicious,  though  I  do  not  happen  to  have 
known  one  which,  if  properly  treated  while  young, 
might  not  have  been  rendered  easily  subservient  by  a 
master  who  had  himself  been  properly  trained,  unless 
the  animal  inherited  distrust  from  a  long  line  of  wild 
ancestors,  or  came  of  a  stock  imbruted  by  the  savagery 
of  their  possessors.  There  are,  no  doubt,  horses  lack- 
ing in  intelligence — horses  which,  as  has  been  well  said 
of  a  certain  stock,  "  have  to  learn  everything  afresh 


The  Balm  of  Solitude.  367 

every  time  they  go  upon  the  road."  Such,  like  the 
asinine  hybrid,  may  be  valuable  merely  as  controlla- 
ble masses  of  tractionary  muscles,  but  they  are  not 
worth  reproducing.  The  best  horse  is  always  an  ani- 
mal of  rare  intelligence,  and  equine  intelligence  is  stim- 
ulated always  by  human  associations,  and  whether  it 
shall  be  trustful  or  distrustful  depends  very  largely 
upon  the  character  of  the  human  associate.  A  man 
whom  other  men  cannot  trust  rarely  trains  a  horse  on 
which  any  one  can  rely.^ 

I  need  not  say  how  congenial  this  occupation  was  to 
me.  A  man  may  become  a  good  rider  or  driver  with- 
out any  love  for  the  horse,  but  only  one  bom  with  that 
love  in  his  veins  can  ever  properly  train  one  or  care  for 
one.  After  a  while,  we  brought  a  couple  of  colored 
grooms  from  Kentucky.  Their  wives  came  with  them 
and  served  as  our  domestics.  They  were  not  faultless. 
They  were  sometimes  harsh  and  often  neglectful,  but 
they  had  a  decided  fondness  for  the  animals  they  cared 
for,  and  their  vices  were  easily  modified,  if  never  wholly 
eliminated,  I  was  fortunate,  too,  in  having  as  an  asso- 
ciate, Jacques,  with  his  ancestral  Breton  tendencies,  and 
his  wife,  who  had  memories  of  her  own  of  the  Cote  du 
Cher,  and  the  inherited  love  of  the  peasant-farmer  for  a 
petted  weanling.  They  had  charge  of  the  foals,  and 
saw  that  they  were  gently  taught  to  submit  to  being 
handled  and  restrained,  to  lead,  to  follow,  to  start  and 
stop  at  the  word,  to  bear  light  burdens,  face  unusual 
sights  and  sounds,  and  made  to  acquire  that  most  dif- 
ficult and  unusual  of  equine  accomplishments — a  fast 
and  steady  walk.  When  the  colts  were  two  years  old 
they  crossed  the  river  and  came  under  my  especial 
supervision. 

It  is  not  my  purpose  here  to  give  an  account  of  our 
method.    Indeed,  there  was  no  inflexible  method.     The 


368  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 


efficient  trainer,  like  the  wise  schoolmaster,  must  be  a 
man  of  brain  and  sagacity  enough  to  adapt  his  tuition  to 
the  intelligence  and  character  of  his  pupil.  Suffice  it 
to  say  that  no  actual  force  was  employed  nor  any  show 
of  force  more  tangible  than  insurmountable  inclosures. 
I  do  not  mean  that  the  whip  was  discarded,  but  it  was 
used  more  as  a  symbol  of  authority  and  a  means  for 
communicating  orders  to  the  eye  like  the  officer's  sword 
than  as  an  instrument  of  punishment.  In  rare  cases,  it 
is  very  true,  it  was  used  for  that  purpose,  but  only  on 
my  own  judgment  and  in  extreme  necessity.  I  am  not 
sure  that  its  primiti\  e  use,  with  a  colt  having  sufficient 
intelligence  to  be  worth  training,  is  not  always  a  mis- 
take. 

During   the    period    of    actual     training     each   colt 
received    a  lesson   every   day   of   sufficient   length  to 
make    an  impression  upon  his  memory  and  not  long 
enough  to  produce  weariness  or  discouragement.     After 
that    time,  exercise,  practice,  trials    followed,  both  to 
harden  the  muscles  and  to  crystallize  the  lessons  into 
habits  of  action  and  obedience.     As  we  had  no  intention 
of  breeding  for  the  turf  and  no  desire  to  secure  the 
patronage   of  the   gambling  fraternity,  which  delights 
only  in  extraordinary  and  destructive  performances  by 
half-developed  colts,  there  was  no  inducement  to  rush 
our   stock  into  market  before  their  powers  were  fully 
matured  and  their   qualities   firmly  established.     Our 
purpose  was  to  breed  horses,  not  mere  gambling  mater- 
ials.   By  adopting  this  policy,  Tete  de  Loup  Ranch  was 
enabled  to  send  out  every  year  a  string  of  thoroughly 
trained  animals,  every  one  of  which  was  brave,  intelli- 
gent, trustful,  obedient  and  reliable,  of  matured  powers, 
and  of  a   quality   to  fully   gratify   the  owner's  pride, 
though  they  might  not  minister  to  the  gambler's  greed. 
Their  quality  was  at  once  appreciated — the  more  readily 


The  Babn  of  Solitude.  369 

as  we  refused  to  part  with  them  on  any  terms,  tintil 
they  had  had  a  few  months  of  careful  handling  on  the 
lower  levels  of  the  East  to  accustom  them  to  a  moister 
climate  and  a  denser  atmosphere. 

The  prices  received  have  been  as  satisfactory  as  their 
performances.  The  only  case  in  which  they  have 
proved  refractory — if  that  could  be  called  refractoriness 
— ^beingf  the  one  in  which  the  stupidity  of  an  awkward 
driver  resulted  in  the  destruction  of  the  splendid  pair, 
whose  impetuosity  was  the  cause  of  my  present  injury. 
I  did  not  need  to  seek  pecuniary  profit  from  this  ven- 
ture. The  enhancement  of  values  and  the  development 
of  new  properties  in  the  beautiful  metropolis  of  the 
plains  made  me  quite  able  to  gratify  my  inclination, 
even  at  a  much  greater  expense  ;  but  no  success  I  have 
ever  achieved  has  been  more  satisfactory  than  the 
material  results  of  Tete  de  Loup  Ranch. 

As  I  have  said,  our  life  was  very  simple,  and  to  me, 
in  a  sense,  most  congenial.  I  am  almost  surprised  to 
think  how  I  enjoyed  her  presence  during  this  period 
when  hope  was  dead,  and  I  looked  forward  to  a  future 
in  all  respects  like  the  present  which  I  lived, 

I  occupied  the  new  house  on  the  east  side  of  the  river  ; 
the  others  lived  in  the  enlarged  old  one  upon  the  west 
side.  Every  night  I  escorted  her  across  the  narrow 
bridge  and  bade  her  good-night  at  Jacques's  door, 
and  every  morning  she  waked  me  with  her  impatient 
demand  for  my  appearance.  All  day  long  she  hardly 
left  my  side.  I  loved  her,  and  her  stunted  intelligence, 
little  by  little,  ceased  to  jar  upon  my  consciousness.  I 
came  to  accept  her  as  she  was,  thinking  less  of  what 
she  had  been  and  not  at  all  of  what  I  had  hoped  she 
might  become.  I  had  at  first  been  somewhat  encour- 
aged by  the  fact  that  she  seemed  to  remember 
Abdallah,  but  neither  the  name  nor  the  horse  appeared 


370  A  So7i  of  Old  Harry. 

to  awaken  any  other  memories  of  her  early  life.  Except 
that  she  remained  fonder  of  the  battered  old  veteran 
than  of  any  other  horse  at  the  ranch,  I  could  hardly 
regard  this  preference  as  the  result  of  any  indistinct 
recollection.  But  the  fact  that  to  the  very  last  she 
would  rather  ride  him  than  any  other  horse  at  the 
ranch  seems  quite  unaccountable,  in  so  good  a  horse- 
woman, on  any  other  hypothesis.  Considering  his  age 
and  the  fact  that  she  rode  in  turn  almost  every  one  of 
our  colts  in  those  daily  trips  which  were  a  regular  part 
of  our  system  of  training,  this  continued  fondness  for 
the  infirm  old  veteran  seems  so  strange  a  thing  that  it 
is  little  wonder  it  gave  me  hope  that  memory  might  yet 
recover  its  sway. 

Especially  will  it  seem  impossible  to  account  for  this 
preference  on  any  other  ground,  when  we  recall  the 
fact  that  the  silver-maned  son  of  Gray  Eagle,  peerless 
in  all  those  qualities  which  make  up  the  perfect  saddle- 
horse,  was  always  at  her  disposal,  and  indeed  her  cus- 
tomary mount.  Some  months  before  our  coming  to 
Tete  de  Loup,  I  had  learned  from  a  paragraph  floating 
through  the  press,  that  my  wife,  being  about  to  dispose 
of  her  establishment,  the  horse  would  be  for  sale  upon 
a  certain  day.  The  time  was  very  limited,  but  I 
hastened  Van  Wyck  East  to  buy  the  horse  for  me.  The 
price  he  paid  was  not  so  large  as  I  expected  ;  whether 
the  favor  of  his  master's  notoriety  detracted  from  his 
value,  or  his  qualities  were  not  fully  appreciated,  I 
never  knew. 

I  was  very  glad  to  have  him  in  my  possession  once 
more,  and  glad  also  to  learn  incidentally  that  my  wife 
was  not  taking  my  abandonment  seriously  to  heart,  but 
contemplating,  as  Van  Wyck  told  me,  a  trip  abroad. 
Of  course,  I  asked  few  questions  about  her;  but  1  was 
sorely  tempted,  as  I  had  been  many  times  before,  to 


The  Balm  of  Solitude.  371 

write  to  her,  not  to  excuse,  but  in  part,  perhaps,  to 
extenuate  my  fault,  and  more  especially  to  prevent  her 
from  being  led  into  difficulty  by  a  re-marriage.  Believ- 
ing me  dead,  she  would,  of  course,  naturally  suppose  her- 
self free  to  marry  again  without  the  formality  of  a 
divorce. 

I  saw,  however,  that  such  a  course  was  impossible, 
without  involving  other  and  still  more  serious  and 
embarrassing  consequences.  It  was  more  than  probable 
that  she  would  consider  such  action  as  adding  insult  to 
injury.  Besides,  I  was  responsible  for  the  good  name 
as  well  as  the  creature  comforts  of  the  woman  whose 
destiny  I  had  taken  into  my  hands,  and  I  could  not  sub- 
ject her  to  any  of  the  reproaches  which  would  be  sure 
to  be  evoked  by  such  a  revelation.  Fortunately,  the 
good  sense  of  my  wife  afterward  relieved  me  from  such 
apprehension.  She  applied  for  a  divorce,  and  a  news- 
paper containing  a  notice  of  the  application  found  its 
way  into  my  hands.  I  was  puzzled  to  account  for  its 
being  sent  to  me,  at  the  time,  but  concluded  that  the 
fact  of  Van  Wyck's  having  acted  for  me  in  the  purchase 
of  Damon  accounted  for  its  having  been  mailed  to  me 
in  his  care.  As  the  application  was  made  in  a  Western 
State,  and  the  husband's  name  was  stated  to  be  J.  H. 
Goodwin,  it  attacted  no  attention  ;  and  even  when  the 
decree  was  finally  granted,  as  I  suppose  it  must  have 
been  soon  afterward,  there  was  no  mention  made  in  the 
press  even  of  the  fact  that  the  husband  from  whom  she 
sought  iseparation  had  ever  been  a  man  of  any  note.  I 
suppose  the  divorce  was  only  a  precautionary  measure, 
owing  to  the  fact  that  my  death  was  not  absolutely 
provable.  It  was  a  very  wise  thing  for  her  to  do,  and  I 
felt  really  proud  of  the  sagacity  with  which  she  had 
acted  in  the  matter,  being  sure  that  her  chief  motive  in 


'}^']2  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

so  doing  was  to  avoid  casting  any  unnecessary  odium 
on  my  name. 

It  was  terrible — this  utter,  irremediable  eradication 
of  the  past  ;  having  but  one  to  love  and  none  to  love 
me  ;  being  a  stranger  in  the  land  I  had  fought  to  save  ; 
my  fame  dust  and  ashes — its  very  mention  bitterness  ! 
I  suppose  even  my  comrades  in  their  reunions  avoid 
mention  of  my  name  as  far  as  possible.  I  have  never 
attended  one.  I  dare  not.  I  am  afraid  my  emotion 
might  betray  me  or  some  accident  make  my  woe 
unbearable. 

Even  the  poor  tribute  of  a  headstone  is  denied  me. 
No  one  will  ever  point  out  my  grave.  The  car  was 
burned ;  the  bodies  destroyed.  It  seemed  terrible 
then.  Now  I  am  glad  it  so  happened.  In  time,  per- 
haps, while  the  good  of  my  life  is  yet  remembered,  the 
evil  may  be  forgotten.  I  am  surprised  when  I  look 
back  upon  it  now,  that  when  I  came  to  realize  my  posi- 
tion I  did  not  seek  refuge  in  the  death  I  had  so  mirac- 
ulously escaped.  But  for  my  obligations  to  her^  I 
should  have  done  so,  I  am  sure.  So  we  lived  on, 
together,  yet  separated  by  an  insurmountable  wall. 
Mounted  upon  Damon,  she  accompanied  me  everywhere 
about  the  surrounding  country  in  the  lessons  which  I 
gave  the  younglings  under  the  saddle — a  portion  of 
their  training  which  I  reserved  especially  for  myself, 
and  in  which  she  took  the  utmost  delight. 

Thus  five  years  had  elapsed  since  Hubert  Goodwin's 
death.  The  anniversary  of  our  last  meeting  before  the 
darkness  fell  between  us  had  come  again.  The  bright 
spring  sunshine  flooded  the  little  valley  with  that 
peculiar  white  light  which  characterizes  the  clear  atmos- 
phere and  cloudless  skies  of  our  mid-continental  Italy. 
At  this  season  of  the  year  she  had  always  been  more 
restless  than  at  others.     She  was  lying  curled  up  on  a 


The  Balm  of  Solitude.  373 

lounge  in  the  kittenish  way  peculiar  to  her,  in  the  sit- 
ting-room of  my  house.  I  was  reading  to  her  for  the 
thousandth  time,  perhaps,  a  poem  we  had  read  together 
just  before  the  evil  days  came — a  pleasant  story  of  that 
New  England  life  now  quite  forgotten  by  the  newer 
life  which  has  succeeded  it — Holland's  "  Bitter  Sweet," 
which  has  already  grown  almost  as  unfamiliar  to 
American  readers  as  the  Norse  legends  ;  far  more  so, 
indeed,  than  Ibsen's  cynicism,  or  Tolstoi's  degrading 
speculation.  Perhaps  it  was  because  I  had  first  read 
this  book  with  her  that  it  still  held  a  tender  place  in  my 
heart,  and  I  read  it  over  and  over  to  ears  to  which  it 
was  always  new,  with  less  of  weariness  than  I  felt  in 
re-reading  other  more  notable  works.  Perhaps  I  found 
in  it  a  hint  of  something  in  harmony  with  my  own  sin. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  it  always  set  me  dreaming  of  the 
past.  On  this  particular  day,  the  page  vanished  from 
my  sight ;  I  forgot  the  lithe  figure  upon  the  sofa,  the 
great  gray  eyes  that  watched  me  and  the  shining  hair 
which  gave  back  the  silvery  light  with  a  softened  glow 
like  that  of  the  mountain  twilight.  My  thoughts  were 
busy  with  the  past. 

"  Jack !" 

What  was  there  in  the  tone  that  made  my  heart  stand 
still  ?  Was  it  memory  that  played  me  false  ?  It  was  not 
the  voice  to  which  I  had  lately  been  accustomed,  but 
that  which  I  had  heard  when  I  first  read  the  volume  in 
my  hand.  I  dare  not  look  around  or  move,  lest  I  should 
destroy  the  sweet  illusion ;  for  I  did  not  doubt  that  it 
was  illusion. 

"  Jack  !" 

There  was  no  mistaking  it  now.  It  was  not  the  sim- 
ple, trustful,  half-comprehending  "  Weely  "  who  was  call- 
ing me,  but  the  old,  old  love  so  long  dead  and  buried 
in  shame  and  misfortune.    The  sw^eat  burst  out  upon 


374  ^   ^^^^  ^/  ^^^  Harry. 

my  brow  ;  my  whole  frame  shook  with  the  tremor  of 
unexpected  rapture.  T  did  not  move  or  speak — I  could 
not. 

"Jack!" 

There  was  a  touch  of  impatience  in  the  tone  quite 
characteristic  of  her  old  self.  Never  shall  I  hear  again 
anything  half  so  sweet.  The  music  of  the  Seraphim  will 
be  dull  to  my  ears  in  comparison  with  that  voice. 

"  Well  ?"  I  answered,  as  composedly  as  I  might,  not 
turning  my  eyes,  lest  T  should  betray  my  agitation. 

"  Jack,  what  makes  your  hair  so  white  ?  It  didn't  use 
to  be." 

It  was  my  lost  one's  voice  !  The  dead  soul  was  speak- 
ing !  The  puzzled,  half-querulous  tone  showed  that  the 
blind  eyes  saw  again,  and  that  the  clouded  brain  was 
struggling  to  the  light. 

I  could  control  myself  no  longer.  Rising  hastily  but 
not  abruptly,  I  went  to  her  ;  lifted  her  in  my  arms  ; 
kissed  her  face,  and,  while  the  tears  rained  down  my  own, 
and  the  agony  of  those  long  years  burst  out  in  sobs,  I 
cried : 

•'  Dee  !     Dee  !     Dee  !" 

That  was  all  I  could  say. 

*'  Dee  ?  Dee  ?"  she  repeated,  inquiringly.  "  Why, 
Jack  !     Jack  I" 

There  was  none  of  the  accustomed  plaintive  inquiry 
in  her  tones,  but  positive,  up-gushing  gladness.  She 
threw  her  arms  about  my  neck,  and  I  felt  her  slight  form 
thrill  with  the  rapture  of  recognition.  Our  tears  and 
kisses  mingled  while  the  bright  sun  sparkled  on  the  dash- 
ing stream,  and  afar  off  the  white  peaks  rested,  clear  and 
soft,  against  the  infinite  blue  depth. 

"  Like  spirits  that  lie  in  the  azure  sky, 
When  they  love  but  live  no  more," 


-■"iSsie;,.^ 


^r^^-.j.. 


The  Balm  of  Soli t tide.  375 

I  murmured,  as  I  saw  Dee's  gaze  turned  toward  the  dis. 
taut  peaks,  inquiringly. 

"  Oh,  Jack !"  she  cried,  as  she  clung  to  me  with  a 
thrill  of  apprehension.  "  What  is  it  ?  Are  we  dead  ? 
What  has  happened  ?  Where  are  we.  Jack  ?  Tell  me — 
tell  me  truly !" 

I  recovered  myself  with  a  sudden  wrench.  Could  she 
stand  the  shock  ?  Was  I  not  likely  to  lose  the  one  only 
treasure  earth  could  hold  for  me?  Could  the  poor* 
weak  brain  throw  off  the  gloom  of  years  and  live  ?  Had 
I  found  my  love  only  to  lose  her  again  ! 

"  Dee,"  I  said,  firmly,  as  I  laid  her  down  and  smoothed 
the  soft  hands  upon  her  brow  caressingly  ;  "  Dee,  it  is 
all  right  ;  I  am  Jack — your  Jack  ;  and  I  will  take  care  of 
you — always." 

"  Forever  and  ever  ?"  she  asked,  with  a  smile. 

"  Forever  and  ever,  amen  !"  I  answered,  solemnly. 
"  But  you  must  not  ask  any  more  questions  now.  You 
have  been  very  ill.  You  must  lie  still,  very  still,  and 
go  to  sleep.     Will  you  do  as  I  wish  ?" 

**  If — if  I  can,"  with  a  sigh  of  apprehension.  "  But  you 
will  not  leave  me.  Jack — again  ?" 

"  I  will  sit  by  you  and  hold  your  hand.  You  need  not 
fear.     Wait  a  moment  while  I  get  you  something." 

I  stepped  across  the  room,  opened  a  cabinet,  took  from 
it  a  sedative,  poured  a  strong  dose  of  it  into  a  glass  of 
water,  returned  and  held  it  to  her  lips. 

"  Drink  this,  dear,"  I  said  ;  "  and  when  you  waken  and 
are  stronger  I  will  tell  you  everything.  Now  go  to 
sleep." 

I  sat  down  by  her,  took  her  hand  and  stroked  her  hair. 
It  was  terrible  to  send  the  newly-wakened  soul  back 
into  oblivion.  Would  it  return  again  and  be  itself  ?  I 
did  not  know,  but  I  did  know  it  could  "ot  survive  the 
shock  of  this  new  birth  without  rest. 


376  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

Thus  I  sat  and  watched  her  while  she  slept.  When 
the  twilight  fell  and  the  maid  came  to  call  me  to  the 
evening  meal  I  held  up  a  finger  warningly,  and  told  her 
to  send  Louise.  When  the  latter  came,  with  hurrying 
steps  and  pallid  cheeks,  I  said,  chokingly  : 

**  She  must  not  be  disturbed  ;  she — she  is — herself  I" 

'*  Ah,  le  bon  Dieu  /"  exclaimed  the  tender-hearted 
woman  who  had  served  her  so  long  and  so  faithfully. 
She  sank  into  a  chair,  buried  her  face  in  the  white  apron 
she  wore  and  sobbed  silently. 

"She  must  not  be  disturbed,"  I  repeated.  "Put 
some  food  in  the  adjoining  room.  If  she  wakens  I  will 
feed  her.  She  must  not  see  anybody  she  does  not 
know." 

"  Does  not  know  !"  exclaimed  the  faithful  creature. 
"  Not  know  her  Louise  ?" 

"  But  you  forget,"  I  answered.  "  She  will  not  be  the 
— the  same." 

"Ah,  true,"  she  said,  rising  with  plaintive  dignity; 
"  I  did  forget.  She  will  not  be  the  same.  She  will  be 
one  I  do  not  know  ;  and  she  will  not  know  her  Louise. 
Why  should  she  ?  She  will  be  dead,  and  this — this  will 
be  another.  Dieu,  it  is  strange  !  It  is  terrible  !  It 
gives  me  fear  !  It  is  like  a  miracle — like  the  resurrec- 
tion !     I — I  think  I  shall  be  sorry  to  lose  her." 

She  rose  and  went  softly  away,  her  dark  eyes  shining 
in  the  dim  light,  with  a  wondering  awe  which  brought 
a  thrill  of  fear. 

Who  would  she  be  when  she  awoke  ?  I  almost  wished 
she  might  not  waken  at  all,  but  that  the  sweet  soul 
might  exhale — might  flee  into  the  infinite  void  before 
the  sunlight  came  to  make  visible  the  world's  realities. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

LIGHT    UPON    THE   MOUNTAINS, 

Hour  after  hour  I  watched  beside  her,  holding  her 
hand,  noting  every  breath,  counting  the  pulse — hardly 
daring  to  breathe,  myself,  Louise  came  and  arranged 
her  clothing  that  she  might  sleep  comfortably,  without 
waking  her.  We  heaped  soft  coverlets  upon  her,  for 
the  nights  are  chill  in  the  mountains.  I  had  bought 
them,  thinking  the  gay  colors  would  please  her  childish 
fancy,  and  had  not  been  disappointed.  After  a  time  I 
drew  the  curtains,  so  as  to  shut  out  the  moonlight. 
Then  I  could  hear  her  breathing  softly.  I  sat  silent,  hour 
after  hour,  wondering  what  the  morrow  would  bring, 
and  the  days  which  were  to  follow.  It  was  a  long  time 
since  I  had  thought  of  the  future — since  I  had  dared  to 
think  of  it.  Who  would  she  be  when  she  awoke? 
Would  she  be  Dee  or  "  Weely  ?"  How  I  hated  the 
name  which  was  the  badge  of  her  infirmity  !  If  Dee, 
what  should  I  do  ?  If  *'  Weely,"  of  course  the  old  life 
must  go  on. 

Tired  of  the  dull  agony  of  doubt,  I  went  out  and 
walked  up  and  down  beside  the  dashing  stream  in  the 
bright  moonlight,  with  the  wondrous  stillness  of  the 
mountain  night  about  me.  I  seemed  to  be  in  the  very 
center  of  eternity.  The  snowy  peaks  in  the  distance  were, 
to  my  questioning  heart,  the  crystal  pillars  of  the  throne 
of  God,     I  knelt  on  the  river-bank  and  prayed  with  my 


378  A   Soil  of  Old  Harry. 

face  toward  them.  It  was  a  long  time  since  I  had  dared 
to  pray.  Even  then,  I  asked  nothing- for  myself .  I  did 
not  expect  to  be  forgiven  the  wrong  I  had  done — did 
not  think  I  could  be  forgiven,  I  had  regretted  the 
wrong,  but  had  not  repented  of  it.  I  was  not  sure  that 
under  like  conditions  I  would  not  repeat  it,  terrible  as 
its  consequences  had  been.  I  only  prayed  for  her — that 
her  white  soul  might  not  be  stained  by  my  sin.  In  the 
infinite  stillness  of  that  primeval  sanctuary,  I  asked  the 
Eternal  to  take  from  me  my  one  joy — the  hope  of  meet- 
ing recognition  in  her  waking  eyes — if  thereby  only  she 
might  be  saved  from  stain.  It  was  a  fearful  request  to 
make  of  Omnipotence. 

Suddenly  the  earth  seemed  whirling  aimlessly  in  radi- 
ant, gusty,  freezing  space.  The  river-bank,  the  work  of 
unnumbered  ages  of  erosion,  crumbled  beneath  my  trem- 
bling knees.  Instinctively,  I  scrambled  up  the  falling 
mass,  with  difficulty  escaping  engulfment  in  the  dashing 
torrent.  The  moon  was  swaying  in  the  firmament. 
The  earth  was  throbbing  with  an  angry  roar.  The 
mountain  peaks  were  rocking  in  their  places.  The  cold 
sweat  stood  upon  my  brow  when  I  secured  once  more  a 
firm  foothold.  What  was  the  significance  of  this  con- 
vulsion, following  swift  upon  my  prayer  ?  Did  the 
Almighty  mean  to  indicate  a  way  in  which  it  might 
receive  fulfilment  ?  Had  "  the  canon  'gainst  self- 
slaughter  "  been  intermitted  in  my  case  ?  It  seemed 
so  to  me,  and  I  accepted  the  omen  without  murmuring. 
I  suppose  all  men  are  more  or  less  superstitious,  and 
both  my  long  seclusion  and  my  recent  exultation  had 
endowed  me  with  that  peculiar  egotism  which  counts  a 
single  soul  the  center  of  the  universe  and  regards  nature's 
manifestations  as  designed  for  individual  warning  and 
behoof.  At  least,  this  was  the  construction  I  put  upon 
what  then   occurred.     It   was   too  slight  a  shock  to  be 


Light   Upo7i  the  Mountains.  ^^(^ 

termed  an  earthquake — just  one  of  those  angry  roars 
by  which  Nature  seems  to  assert  her  sentiency. 

Not  willing  to  act  under  excitement,  however,  I  walked 
down  to  the  paddock  and  whistled  to  Abdallah.  The 
old  horse  came  at  my  call.  I  petted  his  grizzled  muzzle, 
took  the  foot  he  lifted  up  in  customary  greeting,  shook 
it  as  if  he  had  been  a  man  and  bade  him  farewell.  Then 
I  went  to  where  Damon  was  kept.  He  was  the  one  visi- 
ble token  of  a  past  blazoned  with  honor  ;  I  remembered 
how  proudly  I  had  ridden  him  through  the  city's  streets, 
when  we  celebrated  the  jubilee  of  peace — the  grand 
review.  How  long  ago  it  seemed  !  Only  she  had  ridden 
him  since.  The  gallant  troop-horse  seemed  older  than 
the  bay,  who  was  his  senior  by  some  years.  Was  it 
because  the  service  had  told  on  him,  or  had  the  Gray 
Eagle  strain  detracted  from  the  vigor  of  the  Belmont 
mare  ?  The  children  of  Diomed  are  not  long-lived  like 
the  offspring  of  Messenger.  I  thought  of  these  things 
as  he  came  obedient  to  my  call.  His  silver  crest  was 
held  as  high  and  proudly  as  ever,  but  there  were  white 
hairs  scattered  thickly  in  the  seal-brown  coat. 

It  was  a  sad  parting.  He  was  the  ghost  of  my  buried 
life.  I  had  never  ridden  him  since  he  had  returned  to 
my  possession.  Only  honor  and  pride  and  good  repute 
had  ever  sat  upon  his  withers.  I  would  permit  none  but 
her  to  mount  him.  My  only  quarrel  with  Jacques  had 
been  when  I  found  him  once  with  his  foot  in  the  stirrup 
ready  to  spring  upon  Damon's  back.  I  should  have 
killed  him  if  he  had  done  so.  He  shrank  away  from  me 
white  and  terrified  at  my  unreasoning  wrath.  He  had 
no  purpose  to  offend.  In  explanation  of  my  act,  I  took 
him  into  the  house  and  showed  him  a  photograph  of 
myself  at  the  head  of  my  command.  It  was  the  only 
relic  of  the  past  I  had  retained.     The  honest-hearted 


380  A  So)i  of  Old  Harry. 

fellow  looked  at  it  a  moment,  the  tears  coming  into  his 
eyes. 

"  I  understand,"  he  said. 

Then  I  tore  the  picture  in  twain  and  threw  the  pieces 
into  the  fire.  Terror  came  over  his  face  again  as  he 
looked  up  at  me  and  softly  withdrew,  leaving  me  alone 
with  the  ashes  of  my  past. 

I  bade  good-bye  to  my  old  war-horse,  and  turned  back 
toward  the  house.  There  was  no  one  else  to  whom  I 
needed  to  say  farewell.  The  child  of  Old  Harry  was 
beyond  the  pale  of  human  friendship.  The  devil's  luck 
had  worn  itself  out  at  last.  Not  one  in  all  the  world  knew 
of  his  existence.  Only  one  weak  soul  had  had  a  dream 
that  he  still  lived.  There  were  no  preparations  to  be 
made.  My  will  had  long  since  been  prepared.  My 
estate  would  insure  her  comfort  ;  after  that  my  sisters, 
should  they  require  it,  and  the  family  of  Hubert  Good- 
win's wife  Kitty,  according  to  their  propinquity  to  her. 
Poor  Kitty  !  What  would  she  say  to  me  when  we  met 
across  the  river?  "  Across  the  river  !"  I  even  smiled 
at  the  double  significance  of  the  phrase.  What  would 
she  say  when  we  met  ?  I  laughed  aloud  at  the  thotight. 
We  should  7iot  meet !  I  recognized  that  as  an  immut- 
able truth.  And  echo  even  came  back  from  my  old,  old 
life  :  "  Where  I  go  ye  cannot  come  !" 

My  old  life  !  When  I  was  waiting  for  a  "  call  !"  And 
/  had  thought  to  proclaim  the  Word  of  Life  to  dying 
souls  !  I  shuddered  at  the  remembrance.  Yet  I  had 
not  been  a  hypocrite,  and  had  never  meant  to  do  any 
wrong  ;  I  had  only  been  unable  to  see  what  was  right. 
It  was  well  that  the  struggle  was  so  nearly  over.  I  felt 
really  glad  to  think  that  being  dead  I  should  at  least  be 
harmless.  I  had  never  seriously  contemplated  suicide 
before,  and  found  the  thought  really  pleasing.  The 
idea  that  one  might  end  responsibility  for  even  unin- 


Light  Upon  the  Mountains,  381 

tended  harm  to  others  was  very  consoling.  There  are 
a  few  who  do  evil  purposely,  but  a  thousand  times  as 
many  who  cause  suffering  by  inadvertance,  ignorance 
and  folly.  I  wonder  if  the  Christ  hated  the  wicked  as 
much  as  he  pitied  the  weak  ? 

I  would  not  go  into  the  house,  lest  proximity  to  her 
might  unman  me,  but  looked  long  and  tenderly  at  it  in 
the  white  silent  moonlight,  and  breathed  a  prayer  for  her 
who  slept  within  its  quiet  walls.  Then  I  walked  toward 
the  river-bank,  feeling  happy  and  peaceful.  The  mys- 
tery of  my  life  would  be  forever  hidden  in  the  rushing 
stream.  No  one  would  find  my  body  or  know  my  fate. 
Perhaps  the  shelving  bank  would  give  a  clue  ;  no  mat- 
ter ;  the  miles  of  foaming  water  below  would  hide  it 
forever. 

Then  occurred  a  most  wonderful  thing.  I  had 
approached  within  ten  steps  of  the  river.  I  was  not  at 
all  excited .  What  I  was  about  to  do  seemed  altogether 
right  and  proper.  I  was  even  grateful  to  the  kind 
Omniscience  which  had  sent  so  unmistakable  an  omen 
in  answer  to  my  prayer.  I  was  walking  firmly  and 
briskly  toward  the  bridge,  deeming  it  better  to  leap 
from  the  middle  of  the  span,  where  the  full  force  of  the 
current  would  surely  carry  me  down.  I  was  not  think- 
ing of  anything  but  the  business  in  hand.  At  this 
moment  I  heard  a  voice  say  : 

"  Hubert  ?" 

I  was  not  surprised  or  alarmed  and  could  not  have 
been  mistaken.  The  word  was  uttered  clearly  and  dis- 
tinctly ;  the  tone  was  familiar.  There  was  neither 
entreaty  nor  command  in  it.  It  was  merely  an  accus- 
tomed call — nothing  more.  T  turned  my  head  inquir- 
ingly, and  saw  a  woman  standing  on  the  porch,  which 
was  flooded  with  moonlight  from  end  to  end.  It  was 
not  ten  minutes  since  I  had  been  within  five  yards  of 


382  A   Son  of  Old  Harjy. 

that  very  spot.  She  was  clad  in  white,  not  ghost-like, 
but  apparently  a  morning-gown  of  some  soft  material, 
and  there  were  roses  on  her  bosom,  I  did  not  need  to 
ask  her  name.     I  knew  it  was  my  wife — Kitty  ! 

"  Hubert  !"  she  repeated. 

I  did  not  doubt  that  she  was  dead.  Whether  her  pres- 
ence meant  pity  or  punishment,  I  did  not  know.  So  far 
as  I  was  concerned,  I  did  not  care.  My  only  thought 
was  of  her — a  vague,  wild  fear  that  harm  had  befallen 
her. 

I  walked  hastily  back  to  the  porch.  She  held  out  her 
hand.  I  went  up  the  steps  and  took  it,  ray  eyes  falling 
beneath  her  calm,  steady  gaze.  We  passed  into  the  house 
and  along  the  hall  into  the  room  wh  ere  the  other  lay.  When 
I  went  out  it  had  been  dark.  Now  there  was  a  light  in 
the  room  adjoining  which  I  had  fitted  up  as  a  bedroom 
years  before,  in  the  wild  hope  that  she  would  some  time 
occupy  it.  It  was  a  dainty  affair — for  the  wilderness, 
that  is.  No  one  had  ever  slept  there.  Indeed,  the  door 
had  hardly  been  opened  a  dozen  times  since  it  was  fur- 
nished. I  had  shown  it  to  her  once — in  an  hour  of 
weakness.  The  door  was  open  now  and  a  lamp  burning 
within.  The  light  shone  upon  the  placid  face  of  the 
sleeper.  She  led  me  close  beside  the  sofa,  and  after  a 
moment  said  : 

"  Hubert,  you  must  never  desert  her." 

She  tone  was  reproachful,  but  very  tender.  I  bowed 
humbly  without  looking  up.    . 

"  Take  her  away,"  she  continued,  "  as  soon  as  she  is 
able  to  travel,  and  never  let  her  know  what  has  hap- 
pened in  the  past." 

There  was  nothing  unnatural  about  this  apparition. 
Her  face  was  white,  indeed,  and  her  voice  a  little  trem- 
ulous,    The  touch  of  her   hand  was  as  it  used  to  be — ■ 


Light  Upon  the  Momitains.  383 

except  that  it,  too,  trembled  in  my  listless  clasp.  I  was 
overwhelmed  with  confusion  and  could  not  answer. 

"  Remember,"  she  said,  "  I  have  forgiven  yourunfaith- 
fulness  to  me  because  of  your  faitlffulness  to  her." 

Somehow,  I  had  expected  ever  since  I  had  heard  her 
summons  to  find  a  corpse  upon  the  sofa,  I  stooped  and 
touched  the  hand  that  lay  outside  the  coverlet ;  it  was 
soft  and  warm.  I  felt  her  pulse  ;  it  was  beating  calmly. 
I  was  stupefied  with  amazement. 

"  She  will  live,"  said  the  other,  assuringly.  I  was 
overwhelmed  with  gratitude  at  her  unexpected  mag- 
nanimity. I  think  I  must  have  fainted  then,  for  the 
next  thing  I  recall  she  was  holding  a  glass  to  my  lips 
containing  the  same  decoction  I  had  given  her.  I  swal- 
lowed it  in  obedience  to  her  dictation.  I  noted  its  bit- 
terness, and  wondered  dumbly  if  she  had  given  me  an 
overdose — if  that  was  to  be  her  revenge,  the  penalty  for 
my  unfaithfulness.  I  did  not  seem  to  mind  very  greatly 
if  it  were.  Then  she  led  me  into  the  bedroom,  and 
drew  the  coverlet  over  me  when  I  had  fallen  stupidly 
upon  the  unused  couch. 

She  was  standing  by  the  bedside  when  I  fell  asleep, 
I  thought  she  kissed  me  and  that  I  heard  her  sobbing 
as  she  stole  away. 

I  suppose  it  must  have  been  a  dream  ;  but  it  was  so 
real  that  for  months  I  did  not  go  to  sleep  without  living 
it  all  over  again.  If  it  had  not  been  for  a  landslide  on 
the  river-bank  opposite  the  house,  the  marks  of  my 
scramble  up  it  and  the  evidence  of  my  exertion  to  save 
myself,  which  were  all  evident  enough  when  the  morn- 
ing came,  I  should  have  thought  the  whole  thing  a  delu- 
sion. But  there  was  no  such  thing  as  doubting  the  fall 
of  the  bank  the  waters  had  undermined,  my  scarred 
hands  or  torn  clothes.  How  I  managed  to  escape  I  can- 
not conceive.     The  exertion  must  have  wearied  me  very 


384  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

greatly,  though  I  did  not  notice  it,  probably  because 
of  the  exalted  mood  I  was  in  at  that  particular  time. 
Feeling  the  necessity  of  rest,  I  must  have  gone  into  the 
house,  lighted  the  laAp,  and  taken  the  opiate,  from  the 
effect  of  which,  no  doubt,  the  dream  resulted. 

It  is  possible,  however,  that  I  fell  asleep  lying  beside 
the  stream,  after  the  exertion  to  escape  engulfment  by 
the  crumbling  bank,  and  dreamed  all  that  seemed  to 
have  happened  afterwards.  There  was  one  thing  I 
could  never  account  for,  however.  When  I  awoke,  just 
as  the  dawn  was  coming  on,  and  tumbling  out  of  the 
luxurious  bed  whose  spotless  linen  was  flecked  with  the 
sand  and  gravel  which  had  fallen  from  my  clothes,  and 
went  into  the  other  room,  I  found  her  sleeping  peace- 
fully with  a  bunch  of  white  roses  on  her  bosom — the 
same  I  had  dreamed  that  Kitty  wore  the  night  before. 
She  evidently  had  not  moved.  I  suppose  I  must  have 
picked  them  from  our  little  conservatory  where  they 
were  blooming,  while  in  a  somnambulistic  state,  and 
placed  them  there.  I  felt  very  weak,  as  was  but  natural 
after  a  night  of  such  excitement.  Nevertheless,  I  knelt 
down  beside  the  couch  where  she  lay  slumbering  so 
peacefully,  and  uttered  a  prayer  of  thankfulness  for  the 
vision  I  had  seen.  My  heart  was  lightened  by  the 
assurance  that  Kitty,  though  dead,  had  forgiven  me. 

When  she  awoke,  I  saw  at  once  the  old  light  in  her 
eyes. 

"  Why,  Jack  !"  she  cried — and  the  remembered  tones 
echoed  like  heavenly  music  out  of  the  desert  of  the  past 
— what  are  you  doing  here  ?" 

"  Hush  !  Hush  !"  I  exclaimed,  bending  over  and 
kissing  the  lips  I  had  not  touched  in  all  these  years. 
"  You  must  not  ask  me  any  more  questions — you  must 
not  think — only  trust  me.     Will  you  not,  darling  ?" 

*'  Why,  of  course  I  will,  Jack,   *  forever  and  ever,'  " 


Light  Upon  the  Mountains.  385 

she  answered,  with  a  bright  smile  ;  "  only  T  wish  you 
would  tell  me  what  has  changed  you  so.  I  should  not 
know  you — if — if  it  were  not  you.'' 

She  passed  her  hand  tenderly  over  my  hair  and  beard 
as  she  spoke,  but  there  was  none  of  the  old  pitiful 
uncertainty  in  her  tone  and  manner. 

"  Wait  I"  I  said.  "  Let  me  bring  you  something  to  eat, 
and  then  I  will  allow  you  to  ask — ^let  me  see — three 
questions — ^not  any  more  to-day." 

I  shook  my  finger  at  her  with  assumed  imperiousness 
and  went  into  the  other  room.  A  lamp  was  burning 
under  the  coffee-urn.  It  was  evident  that  Louise  had 
been  early  astir  to  provide  fresh  nourishment  against 
her  awakening.  I  took  her  a  cup  of  the  steaming  bever- 
age, some  slices  of  bread  and  butter  and  a  glass  of  milk. 
What  rapture  it  was  to  see  her  eat  ! 

"  Why,  Jack,"  she  said,  noticing  my  delight,  "  one 
would  think  you  never  saw  me  eat  before." 

I  answered  her  exclamation  only  with  a  loving  smile. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  when  she  had  finished  her  light 
repast,  "  for  my  three  questions.  I  think  you  are  very 
mean  to  restrict  me  to  three  when  you  know  I  want  to  ask 
so  many.  Of  course,  I  want  to  know  where  I  am  and 
how  I  came  here  ;  how  long  I  have  been  ill  and  what  has 
been  the  matter,  and — why,  Jack,  I  could  ask  questions 
all  day  !" 

"  Yes,  I  know  ;  and  that  is  why  you  must  ask  but 
three.  There  are  days  enough  coming,  dear,  and  you 
will  have  nothing  else  to  do." 

*'  Well,  then — where  am  I  ?" 

"  In  my  house." 

" Your  house ?"  she  said,  surveying  it  critically.  "I 
don't  think  I  ever  saw  such  a  one  before." 

It  had  not  occurred  to  me  how  strange  the  house, 
made  chiefly  of  hewn  logs,  must  seem  to  her. 


386  A  So7i  of  Old  Harry. 

"  How  long  have  you  lived  here  ?"  she  asked,  turn- 
ing to  me  after  a  moment. 

"  Oh — a  good  while,"  carelessly. 

"  How  long  have  I  been — sick.  Jack  ?" 

There  was  a  troubled  look  upon  her  face.  I  dreaded 
the  effect  of  answering  the  inquiry,  yet  judged  it  best 
not  to  avoid  it. 

**  What  is  the  last  thing  you  remember  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  know,  Jack.  There  was  war,  and  you  said 
you  were  going — and — " 

"That  was  in  1861." 

"Of  course — I  know  that." 

"  And  now  it  is — " 

I  paused  to  let  her  think  a  moment  and  then  held  up 
before  her  a  calendar  which  I  took  from  my  pocket. 

A  grave  look  of  wonder  and  incredulity  came  into 
the  gray  eyes  as  they  scanned  the  figures.  I  answered 
the  appeal  with  a  confirmatory  nod. 

"  I  see,"  she  said  at  length,  with  a  sigh.     "  I  see." 

It  was  the  only  allusion  ever  made  by  either  of  us  as 
to  what  her  condition  had  been. 

"  And  you  have  taken  care  of  me  ?    How  good  !" 

I  trembled  at  this  lapse  into  the  language  of  her  other 
life. 

"  How  good  !"  she  repeated — "  How^ood.  ?  Isn't  your 
name  Ifozcgood,  now  ?" 

I  bowed  affirmatively 

"  Just  so  ;  I  remember — Jack  Howgood.  It  used  to 
be  Jack — Jack —    What  was  it  ?" 

"  I  have  forgotten," 

"  You  mean  you  wish  me  to  forget. " 

"  It  might  be  as  well." 

"Well,  I  will  not  try  to  remember  ;  for.  Jack," — her 
voice  became  grave  and  tender — "  I  am  never  going  to 


Light    Upon  the  Mountains.  ^i^^j 

do  what  you  do  not  wish  me  to  again.  You  don't  know 
what  I  suffered  for — for  thatT 

"There,  there,"  I  said,  soothingly,  "  don't  think  of  it ! 
That  is  all  over  now." 

"  Yes,  it's  all  over — all  over,"  she  added,  meditatively. 
"  Jack,  I  must  be  an  old  woman  !" 

I  rose  and  handed  her  a  mirror,  smiling  at  the 
response  it  would  make  to  her  inquiry. 

"  I  don't  look  so  very  old,  do  I  ?"  she  asked,  with  a 
touch  of  her  old  coquettishness. 

"  I  don't  think  you  are  any  older  than  you  were — 
then,"  I  said,  stopping  to  kiss  her. 

**  Ah,  that  is  because  you  love  me,"  archly,  "  You  do 
love  me,  don't  you,  Jack  ?" 

She  stretched  out  her  hands  imploringly,  letting  the 
mirror  fall  upon  the  couch  beside  her.  I  took  her  in 
my  arms  and  answered  her  question  with  an  embrace 
more  assuring  than  any  words.  Presently  she  disen- 
gaged herself,  pushed  me  gently  away,  and,  looking 
searchingly  in  my  face,  said  : 

"  Am  I — are  we — married.  Jack  ?" 

A  soft  flush  mounted  to  her  cheeks  as  she  made  the 
inquiry. 

"  Not  yet,  dear,"  I  answered,  gently. 

"Ah,  I — I  thought  we  had  been." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"  But  we  shall  be  ?    You  are  not  married.  Jack  ?" 

"  You  shall  be  my  wife,  dear,  just  as  soon  as  you  are 
well  enough." 

"And  until  then?" 

"  You  will  remain  as  you  have  been,  my  sister.  But 
you  must  not  ask  any  more  questions  now." 

"  I  understand,"  she  answered,  gravely,  after  a 
moment's  silence.     "  And   you    will   take   care   of  me. 


A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 


Then — "  she  added  with  a  merry  laugh,  **  I  think  I  will 
go  to  sleep  again." 

It  was  curious  how  easily  she  became  fatigued.  She 
would  wake  up  bright  and  cheery,  and  after  a  few  min- 
utes drop  off  again  to  sleep.  Her  physical  health 
was  of  the  best,  but  her  brain  seemed  incapable  of 
anything  more  than  the  most  trivial  exertion.  Little 
things  did  not  worry  her,  but  serious  matters  seemed 
beyond  her  capacity    She  was  a  child  although  a  woman. 

The  attendant  who  had  been  with  her  for  more 
than  a  year  was  ill  the  next  morning.  She  was  a 
very  intelligent  and  faithful  woman,  who  had  been 
sent  to  us  by  Van  Wyck,  when  Louise's  domestic  duties 
made  it  necessary  for  her  to  relax  her  attention.  I  had 
never  observed  her  very  closely,  though,  of  course,  as 
her  attendant,  she  had  the  run  of  my  house  as  well  as 
the  other.  Indeed,  there  were  no  bolts  or  bars  at  Tete 
de  Loup,  there  being  no  need  for  any.  There  was  but 
one  thing  to  be  concealed,  and  that  was  hidden  in  my 
heart.  As  I  said,  I  had  never  given  any  thought  to  the 
presence  of  this  attendant.  She  was  kindly,  attentive  and 
a  lady.  That  was  enough.  I  do  not  think  I  am  as  gen- 
erally observant  of  women  as  many,  and  since  I  had  her 
in  my  charge  I  naturally  thought  only  of  her.  The 
woman  had  fallen  easily  into  our  life,  though  she  never 
manifested  the  same  affection  for  her  as  she  had  dis- 
played to  the  red-cheeked,  wholesome  and  demonstra- 
tive Louise.  This  woman  had  often  predicted  her  recov- 
ery, and  expressed  a  desire  that  she  might  never  see  her 
afterward,  as  she  would  be  so  unlike  the  loving,  tender- 
hearted child  she  had  known. 

Louise  took  her  old  place  as  maid,  and,  at  my  sugges- 
tion, spoke  only  French  to  her  new  mistress.  The  arti- 
fice not  only  diverted  her  attention  from  her  environ- 
ment, but  prevented  troublesome  inquiries.     She  began 


Light  Upon  the  Mountains.  389 

at  once  to  recall  her  vocabulary  of  French  words,  and, 
as  I  had  hoped  might  be  the  case,  did  not  recognize  her 
attendant  as  one  she  had  ever  seen  before.  This  cost 
Louise  some  tears,  though  she  protested  her  joy  at  the 
fact,  since  it  meant  recovery. 

In  a  day  or  two  she  began  visibly  to  droop,  I  had 
not  allowed  her  to  go  out  of  the  house,  and  at  my 
request  she  had  refrained  from,  looking  out  of  the 
window.  I  remembered  Doctor  Talcott's  assurance 
that  the  most  dangerous  of  all  things  in  such  cases  was 
a  too  sudden  joinder  of  the  old  and  new  consciousness, 
and  feared  the  effect  of  recognition  of  her  old  surround- 
ings. "  Different  environments,  variety  of  scene,  but 
few  faces,"  he  had  declared  to  be  the  conditions  most 
favorable  to  recovery.  "  Many  a  feeble  brain,"  he  once 
said,  "  lapses  again  into  insanity  from  being  constantly 
confronted  with  the  surroundings  of  his  diseased  con- 
dition." 

So  I  decided  to  take  her  away.  It  was  a  long  jour- 
ney to  civilization  then  ;  but  there  were  settlements 
here  and  there,  and  the  mountains  and  prairies  were  in 
the  glow  of  early  summer.  I  dreaded  her  antipathy  to 
travelling  in  a  carriage,  but  thought  if  we  could  once 
get  her  beyond  familiar  scenes  the  conditions  would  be 
favorable,  and  she  could  make  the  rest  of  the  journey 
on  horseback.  The  silence,  the  distance  and  the  soft 
surprises  of  the  plains,  it  seemed  to  me,  would  be 
exactly  what  she  required.  We  started  at  night.  She 
was  sleeping  soundly  from  the  efEects  of  an  opiate  when 
I  placed  her  in  the  carriage.  Jacques  and  Louise  were 
with  me,  and  one  of  the  grooms  had  gone  forward  to  our 
first  camping-place,  with  a  string  of  led-horses.  Never 
have  I  been  so  grateful  for  the  horses  of  Tete  de  Loup 
as  on  that  journey.  Before  she  woke  we  had  made  the 
first  stage,  and  when  morning  came  her  delight    in 


390  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

everything  was  almost  pitiful  to  witness.  When  I  lifted 
her  into  the  saddle  after  our  morning  meal,  she  was 
more  like  herself  than  she  had  been  at  any  time  before. 
How  rapturous  was  that  first  day's  ride  with  the  newly- 
wakened  soul  who  did  not  know  that  her  eyes  had  ever 
witnessed  before  the  beauties  which  now  delighted 
them.  We  did  not  hasten  our  journey.  It  would  have 
been  folly  to  do  so.  Each  day  found  her  brighter, 
stronger,  more  fully  restored.  When  we  finally  bade 
our  faithful  attendants  farewell,  it  was  to  hasten  to  a 
quiet  nook  by  the  seashore,  and  after  loitering  there  a 
few  months,  to  make  that  journey  abroad  for  which  she 
had  pleaded  in  vain  so  many  years  before. 


CHAPTER  V. 


SUNSHINE    AND    SHADOW. 


It  is  wonderful  how  readily  w  e  made  our  transition 
back  into  the  world's  life  on  returning  from  abroad. 
Already  we  had  become  known  in  more  than  one 
European  capital  as  the  Howgoods.  As  my  bank 
account  was  ample  we  were  sometimes  referred  to  as 
the  rich  Howgoods,  and,  as  we  were  indifferent  to  pat- 
ronage and  favor,  the  fair  woman  and  white-bearded 
man,  who  loitered  where  they  listed  in  the  ways  of 
foreign  travel,  found  themselves  regarded  first  as  some- 
what eccentric  and  finally  as  quite  the  thing  among 
their  countrymen.  It  was  curious  thus  to  come  into 
the  swirl  of  life  again.  It  was  with  no  set  purpose  that 
we  thus  made  our  advent  in  the  society  of  our  native 
land  bj^  way  of  Sandy   Hook.     Had  it  been  deeply 


Sunshine  and  Shadow.  391 

planned,  however,  no  better  scheme  could  have  been 
devised.  So  many  had  met  us  abroad  that  we  found 
ourselves  already  well  known  at  home.  A  civilization 
always  ready  to  assimilate  anything  that  stands  on  a 
gold  basis  opened  its  doors  to  us  without  hesitation.  No 
one  questioned  who  we  were  because  so  many  knew 
already  what  we  were. 

There  was,  no  doubt,  the  flavor  of  Western  origin 
about  us.  "  Old  Howgood  "  was  still  a  reminiscence  in 
Denver,  but  so  few  had  known  him  that  he  was  little 
more  than  that.  It  is  doubtful  if  any  one  really 
thought  the  connection  between  us  anything  closer 
than  comes  by  inheritance.  Whether  I  was  a  brother 
or  son  of  the  eccentric  financier  nobody  seemed  quite 
able  to  determine,  but  I  think  few  accepted  my  denial 
of  relationship  with  him,  and,  so  far  as  I  am  aware, 
none  suspected  my  identity. 

How  easily  we  fitted  into  the  life  of  the  great  metro- 
polis !  A  luxurious  home,  a  stable  income  and  a  luck 
which  rarely  failed  to  add  something  to  the  sum  total 
of  my  holdings,  whatever  the  turn  of  the  market — they 
were  enough  had  there  been  even  less  of  personal 
merit  than  the  Howgoods  might  justly  claim.  But  she 
won  all  hearts  by  simple,  unaffected  kindliness.  It 
was  amazing  how  humble  she  was  and  how  solicitous 
of  others'  happiness.  We  did  not  go  into  society  much, 
but  society  came  to  us — to  her  rather — for  I  do  not 
think  it  cared  so  much  for  me.  But  she  was  a  magnet 
that  drew  all  natures.  She  was  not  gay  and  yet  the 
butterflies  loved  her  ;  nor  sad,  yet  the  bereaved  sought 
her.  The  rich  admired  her  without  envy,  and  the 
poor  blessed  her  for  her  benefactions.  We  did  not 
embark  upon  the  stream  of  pleasure  nor  give  enter- 
tainments. There  was  always  a  feeling,  though  we 
never  spoke  of  it,  that  she  coiild  not  endure  such  excite- 


392  A  Soil  of  Old  Harry. 

ment ;  but  the  world  streamed  in  and  out  at  our  door, 
asking  only  leave  to  come. 

Yet  we  were  curiously  alone.  She  called  me  Jack. 
That  was  the  only  thing  that  linked  us  with  the  past. 
In  the  years  that  followed  there  was  little  worth 
recording,  save  the  fact  of  our  love  ;  unless,  indeed, 
my  success  in  that  wild  game  of  chance,  which  we 
call  business,  may  be  thought  worthy  of  mention.  I 
played  it  only  for  the  pleasure  I  derived  from  it,  and 
enjoyed  to  the  full  the  delights  of  loss  and  gain.  The  old 
luck  has  been  with  me,  and  the  mark  of  Old  Harry 
would  not  let  me  rest. 

So  far  as  I  am  aware,  no  one  ever  suspected  my 
identity  with  the  disgraced  and  forgotten  man  whose 
name  I  once  bore.  As  for  her,  I  told  her  the  story  so 
far  as  was  necessary.  Of  course,  the  shadow  rested 
always  over  us — or  rather  over  me — the  strange  haunt- 
ing fear  of  discovery.  With  this  fear  she  seemed  to 
sympathize.  It  drew  us  closer  together,  and,  despite 
our  station  in  life,  kept  us  apart  from  other  lives.  We 
had  troops  of  acquaintances,  but  made  no  friends. 
The  past  was  dead  :  we  had  trodden  it  under  our  feet  ; 
but  we  could  not  ask  others  to  tread  upon  its  ashes 
also.  Until  the  young  nurse  came,  I  doubt  if  she  ever 
met  a  woman  whom  she  felt  inclined  to  trust.  At  the 
very  last  the  old  trouble  came  very  near  to  her  again. 
She  seemed  for  a  while  to  have  a  double  consciousness, 
but  through  them  both  shot  one  ray  of  light — her 
unvarying  love  and  trust  in  "Jack."  I  doubt  if  she 
really  understood  that  I  had  ever  been  anything  else 
or  even  had  been  other  than  what  I  was.  I  have  often 
thought  she  never  fully  recalled  the  names  under 
which  we  once  knew  each  other  or  the  events  of  our 
early  life.  We  never  spoke  of  the  past  except  once  or 
twice,  and  then  only  vaguely  and   briefly,     I  thought 


Sunshine  and  Shadow.  393 

sometimes  that  she  had  a  strange  antipathy  to  the 
name  we  bore  ;  but  thought  it  only  a  fancy  until  the  very 
last.  There  was  no  reason  why  she  should  so  regard  it. 
It  is  a  good  name — my  name,  her  name.  Mine  by 
creation,  mine  by  right,  mine  by  law — and  by  me  legally 
and  lovingly  bestowed  upon  her.  It  is  the  symbol  of  a 
loyalty  as  perfect  as  the  stanchest  type  of  steadfastness. 
Never  once  while  she  lived  did  I  feel  any  desire  to  go 
back  and  be  what  I  was  before. 

It  is  a  good  name — so  good  that  it  will  make  a  draft 
of  seven  figures  worth  its  face  in  gold  in  any  market  of 
the  world.  It  is  an  honorable  name,  too ;  a  name  of 
which  I  am  proud  because  I  made  it  both  good  and 
honorable.  It  came  to  me  unspotted  with  evil,  unlight- 
ened  with  good — out  of  darkness,  void,  oblivion.  It 
brought  no  heritage  of  honor  or  dishonor,  success  or 
failure.  It  brought  no  moral  or  intellectual  bias,  no 
attainder  of  blood,  no  obligation  of  kinship.  It  is  mine 
by  creation,  mine  by  adoption,  mine  by  the  law's  con- 
firmation, mine  by  the  ineradicable  brand  of  sin  and 
shame.  In  all  the  world  there  is  not  one  who  can  claim 
affiliation  through  it.  I  alone  have  worn  it — I  and  she 
— and  with  me  it  will  disappear.  As  it  was  born  of  love 
for  her,  I  made  it  honorable  and  kept  it  clean  for  her 
sake.  Our  name  I  How  proud  I  was  of  it  when  I 
inscribed  it  upon  the  register  of  the  hotel  of  which  I 
was  to  remain  so  long  a  guest ! 

"  John  Howgood  and  wife,  )  ^       y    .  „ 
Miss   Katherine    Parks.  \  ^^^   ^°^^- 

That  was  the  record  of  our  advent.  How  obsequious 
the  landlord  became  when  he  had  read  it.  Why  should  he 
not  be  }  He  who  can  command  any  service  he  desires 
honors  him  whose  service  he  accepts.  I  engaged  rooms 
for  a  day.     She  was  not  well ;  that  is  why  she  traveled 


394  -^  '^^^  ^f  ^^^  Hariy. 

with  an  attendant ;  why  we  stopped  here  ;  why  we 
traveled  at  all,  indeed.  All  places  were  alike  irksome 
and  hateful  to  me  while  the  cloud  rested  over  her.  Yet 
the  name  does  not  adorn  her  tombstone.  It  was  her 
desire,  and  that  is  more  potent  than  man's  law  or  even 
God's  command  to  me.  I  think  I  would  willingly  break 
all  laws  to  fulfill  the  slightest  wish  of  hers. 

It  was  no  light  affliction  to  me  that  I  might  not  carve 
upon  her  tomb  the  name  I  had  made  for  her  and  shared 
with  her  so  long.  I  loved  it  and  could  not  bear  to  think 
that  it  would  drop  back  into  unnoted  oblivion  when  I 
should  die.  It  is  known  almost  the  world  over.  It  has 
been  at  the  fore  in  good  deeds  and  bears  the  stain  of  no 
evil  purpose  upon  it.  Yet  if  she  must  sleep  without  it, 
so  will  I.  I  wonder  if  I  could  persuade  the  nurse  to 
wear  it.  She  was  very  fond  of  her,  and  during  the  days 
which  have  since  elapsed  has  been  very  kind  to  me. 
Somehow,  I  feel  as  if  it  would  please  her  to  have  one 
whom  she  loved  bear  our  name.  I  would  have  proposed 
it  and  made  the  nurse  my  heir  long  ago  if  she  would 
have  consented  ;  but  she  is  proud — very  proud  and  very 
unjust,  I  think  also.  Pray  God  she  may  not  be  mercen- 
ary !  Yet  why  should  I  blame  her  if  she  be  ?  Who  am 
I  that  I  should  cavil  at  another's  imperfections  ?  Why 
should  I  care  anything  about  her  indeed?  Yet  I  do 
care  and  am  in  constant  fear  lest  she  should  go  away 
and  leave  me.  I  do  not  understand  the  feeling. 
Perhaps  it  is  because  she  commended  her  to  my  care 
so  earnestly. 

To  my  care  !  It  would  have  been  more  to  the  pur- 
pose had  she  commended  me  to  her  care.  I  am  alone 
now,  helpless  and  unloved,  unless,  perchance,  the  nurse 
has  some  little  compassion  for  me.  Money  can  buy 
service  ;  but  it  cannot  buy  tenderness — love.  And  I  am 
hungry  for  love — not  such  as  she  gave  me,  but  for  the 


Sunshine  and  Shadow.  395 

love  that  crowns  the  close  of  life — a  child's  love.  The 
lust  of  possession  is  dead — I  desire  now  only  to  be  pos- 
sessed, claimed,  prized — to  be  for  a  little  while  the 
centre  of  some  life's  thought,  and  afterward  cherished 
as  a  pleasant  memory.  Ah,  if  the  nurse  were  my  child 
— if  she  would  only  be  my  daughter  !  Yet  until  that 
day — that  saddest  of  all  days — I  had  hardly  noted  her 
existence.  Perhaps  it  is  because  she  came  to  me  out  of 
the  cloud  that  she  seems  now  so  resplendent  to  my 
thought. 

How  ever}i;hing  has  changed !  Only  two  short 
months  ago  my  life  was  at  the  zenith.  The  love  which 
had  shone  steadily  through  so  many  years  was  to  the 
last  unclouded.  Then  came  the  night !  How  swift  it 
fell !  How  impenetrable  its  darkness  !  I,  that  was  so 
much,  am  less  than  nothing  !  The  world  does  not  count 
me  even  a  potentiality — only  the  shadow  of  what  was 
once  a  power.  Yet  T  am  not  unhappy.  I  am  even  glad 
that  she  did  not  have  to  bear  the  burden  of  isolation 
which  now  presses  down  on  me.  I  am  sure  it  would 
have  been  more  than  she  could  have  endured.  She 
might  even  have  fallen  back  into  the  abyss  from  which 
my  love  had  rescued  her.  I  am  glad,  too,  that  she 
knew  no  lingering,  wasting  woe.  It  was  as  she  had 
always  wished — as  she  was  in  life  so  she  smiled  in 
death. 

When  they  thought  all  was  over — when  they  told  me 
she  was  dead,  I  was  like  one  rent  with  mortal  agony. 
She  must  have  heard  me  and  come  back  from  the  dread 
unknown  in  answer  to  my  cry.  The  life-light  came 
once  more  into  her  eyes  ;  the  bloom  of  youth  glowed 
one  moment  more  upon  her  cheeks.  Her  hair  shone 
like  spun  gold  in  the  sunshine.  "Jack,"  she  said. 
Then  while  the  glory  faded  from  her  face,  we  heard  her 
lips  repeating  the  lines  with  which  she  had  answered 


396  A   Son  of  Old  Harry. 

my  prayer  for  love  in  that  other  life  which  lay  beyond 
the  verge  of  one  long  night  : 

"  If  I  should  fade 
Into  those  mystic  realms  where  light  is  made, 
And  you  should  long  once  more  my  face  to  see  ; 
I  would  come  forth  upon  the  hills  of  night, 
And  gather  stars  like  faggots,  till  thy  sight 
Led  by  the  beacon-blaze  fell  full  on  me." 

It  was  enough.  I  never  looked  upon  her  face  again . 
Why  should  I  regard  the  mold  while  the  rose  was  yet 
fresh  in  my  memory  .' 

Two  days  afterward,  we  bore  her  to  the  grave.  Poor 
dear.  It  was  the  first  carriage-ride  she  had  taken  in 
many  years  without  moaning  and  trembling  with  fear. 
I  was  full  of  terror  lest  even  the  cold  heart  should  throb 
with  agony  as  the  nicely  balanced  hearse  swung  to  and 
fro  under  the  weight  of  the  heavy  casket.  It  was  an 
imposing  procession  that  followed  it,  though  we  were 
strangers  in  the  city.  The  rich  never  lack  for  sympa- 
thy. It  is  only  those  who  need  assistance  to  whom  we 
forget  to  offer  it.  A  leading  citizen  had  begged  to  be 
allowed  to  place  his  private  carriage  at  my  disposal.  I 
feared  there  was  a  sinister  purpose  behind  the  offer — 
the  rich  must  always  be  suspicious — but  I  accepted,  and 
asked  the  young  nurse  who  had  closed  her  eyes  to  share 
it  with  me.  I  was  afraid  the  minister  who  was  to  offi- 
ciate would  be  forced  upon  my  privacy  and  might  seek 
to  offer  consolation.  She  seemed  surprised  at  my 
request.  I  had  hardly  noticed  before  how  young  and 
attractive  she  was,  nor  how  like  one  of  us  she  had 
grown  in  the  long  months  during  which  we  had  watchen 
together  the  fading  life.  For  she  had  not  sickened  and 
died  ;  she  had  only  faded  and  exhaled. 


Sunshine  and  Shadow.  397 

"  There  will  be  no  other  mourners,"  I  explained. 

"  No  relatives  ? 

I  shook  my  head.     '*  There  are  none." 

"  None  ?" 

**  None  who — no,  none — not  one,"  I  answered,  irri- 
tably. 

She  asked  no  more  questions.  I  was  "afraid  she 
would  refuse.  I  knew  that  she  had  come  to  love  the 
gentle  girl  who  had  attended  her  so  faithfully  in  those 
last  days.  Besides,  I  shrank  from  being  the  sole 
mourner  at  her  grave.  It  seemed  as  if  it  would  appear 
like  a  reproach  to  her  purity  if  no  woman  bent  above 
her  resting-place  wearing  the  habiliments  of  grief.  I 
had  not  realized  before  how  terribly  she  had  been 
cursed  by  my  act — by  a  past  which,  though  dead,  was 
yet  potent  to  doom.  Of  friends  we  had  no  lack,  but  of 
those  to  whom  nature  gives  the  right  to  mourn  there 
were  none  who  would  know  of  her  death — or,  knowing, 
would  have  cared.  The  nurse  still  hesitated,  or  seemed 
to  hesitate. 

"  I  thought  you  loved  her,"  I  said,  with  unreasoning 
bitterness. 

"  Oh,  I  did — as  if  I  were  her  daughter !"  she 
exclaimed,  in  passionate  protest. 

Her  daughter  !  How  the  words  startled  me  !  If  she 
only  had  been  ! 

"  Will  you  not  be  ?"  I  asked,  impulsively. 

She  looked  up  at  me  incredulous — reproachful,  I 
thought. 

"  Not  my  daughter,"  I  said,  humbly—"  hers.'' 

She  smiled  sadly. 

"  For  a  few  days,  if — if  you  desire  it  to  be  so." 

Her  voice  trembled  ;  it  was  low  and  sweet.  I  think 
it  comforted  me.  I  was  seized  with  an  overwhelming 
desire  to  keep  her  near  me. 


398  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

"  Why  not  forever  ?"  I  asked,  earnestly. 

**  I  am  very  sorry — for  you,"  she  replied,  seeming  not 
to  heed  my  question. 

^^  She  loved  you,"  I  said,  apologetically.  I  was  not 
even  angry  that  she  should  doubt  me. 

Tears  came  into  the  beautiful  eyes.  She  bowed  her 
head,  but  made  no  reply. 

I  construed  the  gesture  to  mean  assent,  and  told  those 
in  charge  of  the  preparations  that  I  had  adopted  her. 
She  gazed  up  at  me  in  surprise  when  she  heard  the 
words.  I  would  have  provided  mourning  for  her,  but 
she  would  not  permit.  The  black  gown  she  wore  was 
not  new.  I  wondered  for  whom  it  had  been  worn 
before.  I  was  glad  she  was  to  be  my  companion.  She 
would  at  least  ask  no  questions.  Ah,  me  !  it  was  a  sad 
thing  for  her.  Yet  many  envied  her,  no  doubt,  as  she 
took  my  arm  and  walked  beside  me  to  the  carriage; 
It  is  a  nice  thing  to  be  heir-presumptive  of  a  man  whose 
wealth  is  a  matter  of  common  knowledge  to  the  whole 
country.  I  could  not  but  note  the  envious  glances  cast 
upon  her  by  the  assembled  company  as  we  followed  our 
dead  through  the  long  corridor.  They  made  my 
thoughts  bitterer  and  the  world  lonelier.  She  seemed 
to  understand  it  all.  How  kind  she  was  in  that  last  ride  ! 
I  do  not  think  I  can  ever  forget  her  tenderness.  Was 
it  disinterested  ?  Would  she  have  shrunk  from  me  had 
she  known  the  truth  ? 

It  was  a  splendid  span  which  drew  our  carriage.  My 
eye  noted  that  unconsciously  when  it  came  back  from 
following  the  casket  as  it  was  placed  carefully  in  the 
hearse.  I  wondered  if  the  insensate  clay  perchance  felt 
any  jar,  and  reproached  myself  for  not  having  per- 
sonally examined  the  vehicle  which  was  to  bear  her  to 
the  grave.  It  would  be  cruel  to  jostle  even  her  dead 
dust.    There  was  no  embalming.    I  would  allow  no 


Simshine  and  Shadow.  399 

stranger's  hand  to  touch  her.  The  faithful  nurse  and  I 
had  placed  her  in  the  casket.  It  was  a  soft,  white 
couch,  and  the  iron  case  was  a  safe  receptacle.  The 
undertaker  had  screwed  down  the  lid,  and  I  myself  had 
locked  it  at  head  and  foot.  It  was  a  notion  of  mine. 
Even  in  the  grave  I  would  not  yield  possession  of  her. 
She  was  mine — still  mine  ! 

Our  coachman  had  a  mourning  band  upon  his  hat. 
As  we  came  down  the  steps  I  noticed  that  the  close- 
clipped  browns  were  restless.  I  could  see  the  muscles 
twitching  under  their  silky  hides,  and  one  stretched  out 
a  lithe  fore-leg  and  daintily  but  impatiently  scraped  the 
pavement  with  his  toe-calk,  as  if  to  hint  that  the  spring- 
ing tendons  could  not  long  be  denied  opportunity  for 
action.  Despite  my  grief  I  sympathized  with  him,  and 
involuntarily  glanced  again  at  him  and  his  mate.  I 
knew  them  in  an  instant,  though  I  had  never  seen  them 
before.  They  were  too  distinguished  in  ancestry  and 
achievement  not  to  be  recognizable  by  one  having  any 
knowledge  of  the  quick-steppers  whose  records  illumin- 
ated the  trotting  register.  I  comprehended  at  once 
why  they  had  been  sent  me  and  was  grateful.  There 
was  no  footman,  but  the  owner  himself  held  open  the 
door,  hat  in  hand.  He  was  a  stranger,  but  I  gave  him 
a  glance  which  he  must  have  understood.  He  knew  I 
was  a  lover  of  horses,  and  had  sent  his  matchless  span 
out  of  respect  for  my  bereavement.  It  was  a  little 
thing,  but  it  touched  me.  One  gets  tired  of  being 
regarded  only  for  the  money  he  represents. 

It  seemed  a  sympathetic  company  which  had  gathered 
to  do  honor  to  the  woman  none  of  them  had  known.* 
but  I  shrank  from  their  gaze.  The  nurse  reached  out 
and  drew  the  curtains  between  me  and  them.  We  must 
have  waited  a  long  time  while  the  train  of  carriages 
received  their  occupants,  for  there  were  many  carriages 


400  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

though  but  two  mourners.  At  last  I  heard  the  wheels 
of  the  hearse  grate  upon  the  pavement.  I  would  have 
given  my  heart  to  ease  the  jar  even  of  the  cold  clay.  I 
must  have  writhed  in  agony.  The  nurse  put  her  hand 
upon  my  arm.  The  touch  soothed  me.  I  did  not  see 
her,  yet  I  icnew  she  was  not  looking  at  me,  but  out  of 
the  window  with  a  handkerchief  pressed  to  her  lips, 
weeping.     Why  should  she  weep  ? 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A   GOOD  BIT    OF    WORK. 

It  was  over  in  a  flash,  but  it  was  something  to  stir 
one's  blood  while  it  lasted.  When  a  span  of  well-bred 
trotters  really  break  away,  they  are  the  worst  of  all  ani- 
mals to  control.  There  is  not  only  the  fierce  desire  of 
the  thoroughbred  to  go — the  wild  delight  of  racing  with 
each  other  and  the  wind — and  the  indomitable  courage 
which  makes  the  trotter,  after  all,  the  very  finest  type  of 
the  horse  ;  but  there  is  also  the  consciousness  of  wrong- 
doing to  add  wings  to  their  speed.  When  the  trotter 
breaks  his  stroke,  he  knows  he  is  doing  a  forbidden  thing 
and  expects  to  be  punished.  The  fear  of  this  adds  to  the 
frenzy  which  impels  him  to  the  unaccustomed  gait. 

I  do  not  know  what  startled  them.  I  remembered 
afterwards  that  they  had  been  restive  all  the  way  to  the 
cemetery,  though  I  thought  nothing  of  it  then.  The 
driver  was  a  new  one,  and  lacked  confidence,  I  judge.  I 
did  not  observe  the  change  of  gait  at  first,  being  accus- 
tomed to  rapid  driving,  and  my  heart  being  in  the  grave 
we  had  just  seen  heaped  up.     The  light  had  gone  out  of 


A   Good  Bit  of  Work.  401 

my  life  and  the  darkness  had  settled  down  close  about 
me.  Black  hopelessness  had  suddenly  succeeded  a  joy 
so  keen  that  few  realized  its  effulgence.  Others,  no 
doubt,  love  ;  but  I  had  known  nothing  but  love  and  what 
I  had  gained  for  love's  sweet  sake.  The  change  was 
from  noonday  to  midnight.  I  seemed  to  grope  rather 
than  walk  from  that  red  mound  to  the  carriage.  I  saw 
no  one,  though  I  knew  many  were  watching  me  pity- 
ingly— curiously.  I  could  only  wonder  what  she  would  be 
in  the  life  beyond — if  there  is  any  light  or  life  beyond 
the  grave — and  what  would  be  her  thought  of  me  when 
she  looked  back  and  saw  what  lay  behind  the  vail  which 
had  clouded  her  knowledge  here.  Would  she  ever  look 
beyond  it  ?  Would  she  ever  know  the  truth  ?  I  hoped 
not.  Selfish  as  it  seems,  I  think  I  would  rather  she 
should  be  forever  dead — that  she  should  be  no  more  — 
than  know  the  truth.  It  is  a  terrible  thought,  but  I  am 
weak — fearfully  weak — and  I  loved  her  so  ! 

No,  no  !  Let  me  take  it  back — blot  it  out !  Let  it  be 
unsaid  !  It  is  not  true.  I  would  rather  endure  all  wo- 
fulness  forever  than  that  she  should  miss  a  moment's  joy. 
That  is  all  I  can  do — all  I  have  ever  done.  This  fact  is 
the  key  of  my  life — its  one  redeeming  feature — my  sole 
excuse  if  any  palliation  is  possible.  If  I  sinned,  it  was 
for  love,  and  I  will  suffer  for  it,  if  need  be — willingly, 
gladly,  eternally.  But  harm  her  not,  oh.  Fate  !  Touch 
not  her  white  soul  !  Let  her  not  miss  one  thrill  of  rap- 
ture nor  feel  one  throb  of  woe  !  If  penalty  there  must 
be,  let  it  fall  on  me.  Even  into  nothingness — eternal 
nothingness — I  would  gladly  sink  to  save  her  a  single 
pang! 

These  thoughts  and  wilder,  bitterer,  sweeter  ones 
were  in  my  mind  strangely  intermingled,  as  we  took  our 
way  back  to  the  hotel,  when  suddenly  the  nurse  clasped 
my  arm.     I  looked  at  her  like  one  just  wakened  from  a 


402  A   Son  of  Old  Harry. 


dream.  Her  face  showed  very  white  against  the  mourn- 
ing bonnet.  We  were  simply  flying  ;  that  is  the  only 
word  to  express  the  sensation.  The  light  carriage  in 
v/hich  we  were  shut  up  was  as  nothing  to  the  high-bred 
beasts  striving  to  outdo  each  other.  I  knew  at  once  that 
the  only  thing  to  be  done  was  to  choose  the  least  fre- 
quented streets  ;  steer  clear  of  obstructions  and  let  them 
go  until  they  had  had  their  fling  and  were  ready  to  set- 
tle down  to  steady  work.  I  pulled  open  the  window  and 
shouted  this  to  the  driver.  Poor  fellow  !  One  will 
never  know  whether  he  heard  or  not. 

I  put  my  left  arm  about  the  nurse,  knowing  that  it 
would  be  better  for  her  in  case  we  were  overturned — 
especially  if  I  fell  underneath,  as  I  would  try  to  do.  I 
was  sorry  then  that  she  had  come  with  me,  and  said 
something  of  the  kind.  I  do  not  know  what  answer  she 
made,  but  she  was  very  composed  for  one  in  such  peril, 
I  do  not  think  I  ever  rode  so  fast  in  my  life — not  since 
the  great  race,  at  least. 

Fortunately,  few  of  the  Southern  city's  streets  were 
paved.  A  glance  showed  me  where  we  were,  and  the 
character  of  the  road  "before  us.  A  few  blocks  away  a 
public  square  lay  across  our  path.  On  the  side  we 
approached,  it  had  been  cut  down  sheer  aboufsix  or  eight 
feet,  to  the  grade  of  the  streets  along  the  other  fronts. 
At  one  corner  it  rose  higher,  at  the  other  the  wall  was 
somewhat  lower.  The  inclosure  was  thickly  shaded 
with  ancient  oaks,  now  clothed  in  the  soft,  tender  leaf- 
age of  spring-time,  through  which  the  sun  shone  with  a 
mellow,  opaline  light.  Through  the  openings  in  the 
foliage  one  caught  sight  of  a  massive  heap  of  weather- 
beaten  granite.  The  square  was  walled  with  brick, 
old  and  crumbling.  Upon  one  corner  of  it  stood  an 
unused  office,  dating  back  almost  to  colonial  times  ;  its 
walls  cracked  and  bulging  overhung  the  parapet  below. 


A   Good  Bit  of  Work.  403 

I  thought  of  these  things — not  connectedly,  as  I  have 
written  them,  but  in  a  flash,  as  one  thinks  of  obstacles 
he  must  pass  in  a  charge  over  half- familiar  ground. 
To  pass  the  square  we  must  make  two  sharp  turns  in 
half  a  hundred  yards.  There  was  little  chance  of 
doing  this  in  safety.  Unless  the  driver  had  courage 
enough  to  put  his  horses  at  the  wall,  we  were  pretty 
sure  to  be  overturned  on  one  corner  or  the  other,  and 
then — well,  the  streets  were  paved  with  cobble-stones 
about  the  square,  and  it  was  easy  to  guess  what  would 
be  the  chances  of  the  occupants  of  an  overturned  car- 
riage dragged  at  the  heels  of  two  such  horses.  The 
motion  was  easy  enough  until  we  struck  the  pavement, 
a  block  or  two  from  the  square.  The  horses  were  fairly 
matched,  and  their  training  showed  in  the  evenness  of 
their  stride.  I  could  not  see  them,  but  I  knew  their 
necks  were  outstretched,  each  black  muzzle  straining 
to  get  a  hair's  breadth  ahead  of  the  other.  Their  feet 
touched  the  earth  at  regular  intervals,  with  the  elastic 
force  of  a  steel  spring.  I  held  the  girl  tightly,  so  that  I 
might  be  ready  to  do  whatever  should  seem  needful  for 
her  safety  when  the  crash  came. 

Just  before  we  reached  the  comer  I  saw  a  young  man 
drop  an  armful  of  books  and  a  green  bag,  and  after 
a  hurried  glance  up  and  down  the  street,  turn  and 
run  toward  the  square.  I  read  his  thought  in  an 
instant.  The  corner  was  barely  twenty  steps  away, 
but  we  passed  him  before  he  reached  it.  I  glanced  at 
him  as  we  went  by  and  knew  that  the  end  of  our  race 
was  near,  and  that  this  brown-bearded,  firm- jawed 
young  man  would  be  in  at  the  death.  I  thought  very 
likely  it  would  be  a  real  death,  too.  I  only  wondered 
who  would  die,  and  hoped  it  might  not  be  the  slender 
creature  in  my  arms,  nor  the  brave  young  fellow  who 
was  about  to  risk  hisjife  to  save  us.      . 


404  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

I  saw  he  knew  what  he  was  about,  but  it  was  a  peril- 
ous thing  for  any  one  to  undertake.  He  knew  the 
horses  must  slacken  their  speed  in  making  the  turn  ; 
the  momentum  would  take  them  well  over  toward  the 
wall  along  the  side  of  the  square.  If  they  turned  to  the 
right,  he  would  have  the  advantage  of  position,  for  they 
would  have  to  describe  the  arc  of  a  circle,  while  he 
would  traverse  the  chord.  Then,  if  he  could  get  a  good 
hold  on  the  reins,  he  might  force  them  against  the  wall 
and  stop  them  before  they  reached  the  other  corner. 

It  was  a  good  plan  and  would  have  been  entirely  suc- 
cessful if  we  had  not  had  to  reckon  with  the  masons  of 
a  century  ago.  The  young  man  did  his  part  splendidly  ; 
that  is,  he  did  the  right  thing — the  very  best  thing  that 
could  possibly  have  been  done — at  exactly  the  right 
time.  One  had  no  need  to  be  told  that  he  was  a  horse- 
man. Every  motion  showed  it.  I  could  not  but  admire 
him  as  he  ran,  his  lips  shut,  hands  well  up,  chest  out, 
not  doing  his  best,  but  with  every  muscle  strung  like 
whip-cord  and  his  eyes  fastened  on  the  mane  of  the 
frantic  creature  on  the  off-side  as  if  he  were  picking  out 
the  very  handful  he  was  going  to  clutch.  That  is  just 
what  he  was  doing,  too.  It's  a  good  trick  and  fairly 
safe,  if  one  has  muscle  and  youth,  elastic  bones  and  cool- 
ness on  his  side.  But  there  is  always  danger  in  it,  A 
false  step,  a  second's  miscalculation — any  one  of  a  thous- 
and possibilities — and  one  who  fools  with  a  runaway 
pays  the  penalty  of  his  folly,  no  matter  how  strong  or 
nimble  he  may  be.  As  for  me,  I  could  only  brace 
myself  for  the  shock. 

When  we  reached  the  comer,  the  horses  started  to 
go  to  the  left  but  finally  went  to  the  right,  swerving 
over  toward  the  wall  about  the  square.  The  wheels 
upon  one  side  left  the  pavement ;  those  upon  the 
other    creaked    and    trembled.     I    threw   our  imited 


A    Good  Bit  of  Work.  405 

weight  upon  the  outside.  As  I  did  so,  I  saw  the  young- 
man  dart  by  the  carriage-window  like  a  flash.  I  knew 
he  had  seized  the  off-horse  by  the  bridle  with  his  right 
hand,  twisted  his  left  in  the  mane,  and  was  hanging  a 
dead  weight  upon  his  neck,  crowding  the  span  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  wall.  Then  came  a  jar,  a  crash,  a 
curious,  unaccountable  rumble.  We  were  overturned, 
of  course.  I  came  underneath  as  I  had  planned,  clasp- 
ing the  girl  tightly  above  me.  Just  as  we  fell,  I  saw 
my  mistake.  We  had  struck  the  wall  near  the  cor- 
ner, knocking  out  the  foundation  of  the  old  brick 
office,  I  tried  to  turn  her  over  and  shield  her  from 
this  new  peril,  but  could  not  move.  The  frame  of 
the  carriage  somewhat  broke  the  force  of  the  blow, 
but  it  was  not  much  beneath  the  weight  of  the  wall, 
more  than  a  foot  thick,  which  toppled  over  and  [crushed 
down  upon  us. 

It  was  a  good  while  before  I  knew  anything  more. 
They  tell  me  the  driver  and  one  of  the  horses  are  dead. 
It  is  too  bad  :  the  man  was  brave  if  not  skillful.  The 
horse  cannot  be  replaced.  Such  a  span  would  be  hard 
to  duplicate.  I  may  have  something  the  owner  would 
count  an  equivalent,  however.  The  nurse,  poor  thing,  has 
a  broken  leg  ;  and  I — well,  I  hardly  needed  the  doctor's 
verdict  to  understand  my  situation.  The  young  man 
was  unhurt.  He  is  a  gallant  fellow.  He  has  looked 
after  my  comfort  since  as  faithfully  as  if  I  had  been  his 
father. 


CHAPTER    VII. 


A  RETROSPECT, 


Since  that  day  I  have  been  an  invalid — or  rather  as 
one  half-dead.  The  dull  limbs  defy  my  will.  I  live, 
but  life  is  visibly  ch  ained  to  death.  The  future  holds 
no  hope  save  that  which  lives  beyond  the  stars,  where 
love  will  not  be  sin,  and  shame  will  be  unknown.  I 
have  written  the  story  of  a  strangely  disjointed  life,  and 
the  shadows  of  the  past  have  come  trooping  to  my  bed- 
side, mocking  my  loneliness  with  the  long-forgotten 
yearnings  they  inspire.  I  long  once  more  to  be  what  I 
was,  and  dread  to  die  and  be  remembered  only  as  what 
I  am.  It  is  a  strange  impulse.  I  wonder  if  it  is  akin 
to  that  which  makes  the  criminal  fear  to  die  until  he 
has  confessed  his  crime.  It  is  not  fear,  but  only  the 
desire  to  uncover  and  reveal  the  past — to  let  the  world 
know  that  Hubert  Goodwin  did  not  die  in  that  wild 
tempest  on  the  Western  plains.  I  wonder  if  she  felt 
something  of  this  when  she  refused  to  sleep  beneath  the 
shelter  of  my  name  ?  Or  did  she  think  that  I  had 
shamed  and  dishonored  her  purity  by  bestowing  upon 
her  a  name  that  neither  of  us  had  any  right  to  bear  ? 

The  thought  has  troubled  me  greatly.  Was  her  life 
one  long  sacrifice  to  love  ?  I  can  hardly  realize  that 
such  may  have  been  the  fact  ;  but  why  should  she  ask 
that  this  name — our  name — should  not  be  placed  on  her 


A  Retrospect.  407 

tomb  ?  Did  she  recall  the  past  ?  Did  she,  perchance 
remember  that  she  had  been  another's  wife  ?  Did  she 
know  or  guess  that  I  had  been  the  husband  of  another  ? 
Ah,  if  she  did,  how  sweet  and  holy  was  the  sacrifice  she 
made  to  love  !  Not  one  word  of  regret  !  No  shadow 
of  repining !  If  she  remembered  the  past,  she  must 
have  realized  something  of  what  I  had  sacrificed  for 
love,  and  determined  not  to  make  my  burden  heavier  by 
revealing  any  knowledge  or  suspicion  of  its  existence. 
If  she  remembered  the  past,  she  must  have  known  of 
that  fame  I  trampled  in  the  mire  for  her  sake.  Was 
this  the  secret  of  her  life  ?  Was  this  the  interpretation 
of  her  deep  humility  and  the  tender  pride  she  always 
manifested  in  me  ?  Did  she  think  my  act  which  came 
so  near  to  baseness,  was  indeed  a  god-like  sacrifice  ? 

I  can  well  see  how  she  may  have  been  thus  self- 
deceived.  I  never  thought  to  explain  everything  to  her, 
assuming  that  she  would  either  but  half  understand  it 
or  that  she  would  be  happier  if  the  interval  of  her  afflic- 
tion remained  a  blank.  I  wondered  sometimes  that 
she  did  not  ask  more — about  her  mother,  about  my 
mother,  about  my  life  and  hers  in  those  sad,  silent 
years.  But  I  thought  she  had  forgotten.  What  if  she 
remembered — remembered  and  was  silent  ?  Perhaps 
it  was  a  mistake.  Knowing  that  no  wrong  could  attach 
to  her  conduct,  it  never  once  occurred  to  me  that  she 
might  imagine  that  I  had  reached  out  my  hand  to  her 
in  that  time  of  half -unconsciousness  and  leaped  with  her 
into  a  gulf  of  shame  that  lay  hidden  under  the  name  of 
which  I  was  so  proud — John  Howgood.  How  she  must 
have  hated  it  as  the  mark  of  infamy — the  badge  of 
shame  which  love  had  imposed  upon  her  helplessness. 

I  wonder  if  it  was  because  of  this  that  at  the  very 
last,  when  she  saw  my  grief  at  her  request  that  our 
name  should  not  be  carved  upon  her  tombstone,  she 


4o8  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

expressed  a  desire  that  our  accumulations — for  all  I  had 
was  hers,  since  I  counted  gold  but  dust  in  comparison 
with  her  happiness — might  be  applied  to  some  good  use 
which  would  reflect  honor  on  my  name,  "  Your  name, 
Jack  ;"  that  was  what  she  said.  If  my  soul  had  not 
been  blinded  with  the  agony  of  impending  woe,  I  should 
have  known  her  thought  and  made  her  understand  the 
truth — that  our  name  was  my  name  lawfully  and 
irrevocably  ;  that  on  earth  as  in  the  dim  future  I  would 
stand  only  by  her  side — John  Howgood,  in  time  and 
eternity  !  She  should  have  understood  that  the  old 
name  died  with  the  old  life.  But  she  shall  know  it  yet. 
I  cannot  blazon  it  above  her  ashes,  but  beside  them 
shall  be  placed  my  own,  and  on  the  rugged  granite 
block  above  them  shall  be  carved  the  words,  John 
Howgood.  Beside  it  on  the  self-same  granite — part  and 
parcel  of  it,  indeed — shall  be  a  slender  shaft,  with  only 
those  words  which  in  her  school-girl  days  she  loved  to 
repeat : 

"  Ilia  fuit  animce 
Dtmiduuffi  mece" 

So  the  world  shall  know  that  in  life  and  death  she 
was  half  my  soul. 

The  young  lawyer  has  procured  several  designs  for 
me,  of  which  I  have  chosen  one  which  struck  my  fancy. 
I  showed  it  to  the  nurse  the  other  day,  and  was  surprised 
at  the  feeling  she  exhibited.  It  was  something  more 
than  anger — almost  fury.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the 
burst  of  tears  that  quickly  followed  I  should  have  had 
the  worst  thoughts  of  a  woman  whose  conduct  seems 
altogether  inscrutable. 

I  think  this  very  suggestion  has  turned  my  thought 
backward  with  a  longing  I  have  never  known  before. 


A  Retrospect.  409 

I  cannot  help  feeling'  a  strange  love  for  the  name  I  dis- 
graced. I  am  a  Goodwin  still,  despite  the  gulf  that  lies 
betv/een  me  and  the  old  Goodwin  pride.  I  love  the 
sturdy,  boisterous,  man-defying  stock  which  served 
God  and  the  devil  with  equal  fervor.  From  the  fierce 
Old  Harry  down  to  my  shrewd,  single-hearted  uncle, 
there  is  not  one  who  ever  bore  the  name  of  whom  I  am 
not  proud !  How  they  must  detest  my  memory,  who, 
of  all  the  race,  brought  it  inexcusable  infamy  !  I  can- 
not forget  them.  Blood  is  not  only  thicker  than  water, 
it  is  stronger  than  the  law  itself.  I  wonder  if  I  should 
leave  my  estate  to  this  proud  stock  if  any  of  them 
would  condescend  to  take  it  ?  I  do  not  know  what  my 
uncle's  children,  my  brothers  and  sisters  of  the  half- 
blood — may  be  like.  I  only  know  that  my  mother  died 
believing  in  me.  It  was  natural.  I  was  her  first-born, 
her  idol.  Somehow,  it  seems  just,  now  that  there  is  no 
other  love  to  be  considered,  that,  after  some  specific 
bequests,  I  should  leave  the  bulk  of  my  possessions  to 
those  of  my  own  blood.  Perhaps  that  is  what  she 
meant. 

Why  should  I  not  boldly  utter  the  thought  that  is  in 
my  heart  ?  Why  not  leave  my  estate  to  "  the  heirs  of 
General  Hubert  Goodwin  ?"  Then  there  can  be  no  mis- 
take. Whoever  chose  to  claim  under  that  testament 
would  have  to  acknowledge  their  unfortunate  kins- 
man. Suppose  they  refuse  to  take  it  ?  Well^  then  it 
shall  go  to  some  foundation  to  do  good  in  his  name. 
The  name  I  in  life  covered  with  infamy  I  will  make 
honorable  again  in  death.  If  my  kindred  will  not  take 
my  bounty,  it  shall  be  devoted  to  some  purpose  which 
shall  take  away  the  stain  I  cast  upon  the  old  name. 
What  shall  it  be  ?  I  have  no  wrongs  to  right,  unless  it 
be  to  one  who  is  beyond  the  reach  of  propitiation — 
whose  wrong,  indeed,  was  beyond  amendment — the  wife 


4IO  A   Son  of  Old  Harry. 

who  was  so  proud  of  my  fame  that  she  would  not  have 
it  smirched  by  my  shame,  and  sought  to  hide  her  wrong 
that  she  might  in  part  screen  me  from  blame.  For  her 
sake,  it  shall  be  a  foundation  that  will  be  of  benefit  to 
man.  I  had  thought  of  choosing  the  horse  as  my  ben- 
eficiary— he  has  been  so  linked  with  my  destiny — but 
somehow  I  shrink  from  associating  my  father's  name 
even  with  that  noble  beast,  which  has  been  the  bless- 
ing as  well  as  the  bane  of  our  family.  It  is  my  wish 
to  re-establish  the  name  in  the  esteem  of  men.  I  am 
not  a  philanthropist  ;  I  do  not  much  care  for  the  poor 
and  weak,  but,  after  all,  I  love  humanity.  Why  should 
I  not  leave  my  estate  to  benefit  those  whose  commenda- 
tion I  would  secure  ?  Suppose  I  should  endow  an 
institution  for  the  "  Promotion  of  Human  Progress,"  or, 
better  still,  "  The  Study  of  Methods  of  Human  Better- 
ment?" 

"  Why  not  ?  I  am  sure  the  world  can  be  made  better, 
and  that  only  collective  human  endeavor  can  improve 
present  conditions.  I  do  not  know  how  it  can  be  done. 
I  have  never  studied  such  things,  but  I  do  not  doubt 
that  the  world  would  be  improved  if  the  mere  amassing 
of  superabundant  wealth  was  not  regarded  as  the  high- 
est test  of  ability  and  the  only  worthy  aim  of  ambition. 
I  think  the  world  would  be  sweeter,  too,  if  half  the 
money  and  more  than  half  the  aspiration  of  the  country 
were  not  absorbed  in  that  wild  game  which  we  call 
speculation — gambling  on  the  rise  and  fall  of  values 
which  are  not  enhanced  or  depreciated  by  such  action, 
and  in  which  the  speculator  has  no  interest  beyond  the 
particular  rise  or  fall  on  which  he  has  staked  his  money. 

It  seems  proper  that  a  fortune  won  on  the  "  Exchange  " 
should  be  devoted  to  the  improvement  of  business 
methods  and  social  conditions  which  that  and  kindred 


A  Retrospect,  4 1 1 

institutions  growing  on  the  rank  stock  of  our  bloated 
civilization  have  done  so  much  to  debase. 

I  never  thought  of  it  before,  but  perhaps  this  is  the 
"  call "  for  which  I  waited  in  my  young  days,  and  for 
which  I  have  blushed  so  often  in  my  later  ones.  Per- 
haps my  "  one  talent  "  may  do  more  good  in  this  way 
than  I  could  have  performed  in  any  other.  I  can  see 
that  only  by  such  isolation  from  my  fellows  as  I  have 
known  could  I  have  been  led  to  make  such  application 
of  my  wealth.  I  am  sure  it  would  please  her,  looking 
backward  from  the  realms  of  joy,  and  that  other,  whom 
she  has  no  doubt  met  ere  this — she,  too,  will  be  glad  that 
the  name  she  cherished  with  such  jealous  care  is  not  to 
be  left  entirely  to  dishonor.  The  thought  pleases  me 
and  brings  a  strange  content.  I  seem  to  see  the  frag- 
ments of  a  broken  life  joined  into  one  not  altogether 
discreditable  existence — the  past  and  future  harmonized, 
and  Fate  made  not  a  blind  worker  of  mischance,  but  a 
beneficence  which  blesses  when  it  seemed  only  to  curse. 

It  may  seem  a  foolish  notion,  but  John  Howgood  can 
afford  to  be  foolish.  A  name  that  can  make  a  piece  of 
paper  worth  as  much  as  his  is  proof  even  against  the 
charge  of  eccentricity.  When  I  think  of  its  potency  I  am 
proud  of  this  quaint  synonym  of  humiliation  and  despair, 
and  glad  that  it  has  power  to  wash  away  a  part  of  the 
stain  from  that  other  name  which  I  love,  and  leave  it 
revered  rather  than  accursed  of  man.  To-morrow  I 
will  give  the  young  lawyer  the  last  instructions. 

Through  the  dull,  inert  limbs  that  lie  outstretched 
upon  the  couch  I  feel  the  red  mark  of  Old  Harry  burn- 
ing with  that  fierceness  which  always  presages  success. 
My  life  has  not  been  as  others  forecast  it,  nor  as  I  willed 
it,  but  as  Fate  decreed.  I  do  not  feel  that  I  have  been 
worse  than  most  men  and  believe  that  I  have  been  bet- 
ter than  many.     Of  conscious  eyil  I  have,  perhaps,  done 


412  A  Soil  of  Old  Harry. 

less  and  of  unconscious  wrong  more  than  others.  The 
hopes  attaching  to  my  early  youth  have  been  sadly 
blighted .  I  have  been  of  little  service  to  humanity  ;  in 
fact,  I  do  not  know  that  the  world  is  any  better,  though 
perhaps,  not  much  worse,  for  my  having  lived  in  it.  I 
wonder  if  this  is  not  the  final  outcome  of  most  lives? 
Perhaps  there  may  be  those  who  would  gladly  cut  off, 
as  I  have  been  compelled  to  do,  the  early  life  of  val- 
orous achievements  from  the  latter  one  of  sordid  use- 
lessness. 

One  of  the  predictions  touching  the  fate  of  the  sons 
of  Old  Harry  at  least,  has  been  literally  fulfilled  in 
my  life.  Ever  since  my  baby-hands  caressed  a  suck- 
ling's velvet  muzzle,  my  life  has  been  like  a  post-road 
with  a  change  of  nags  at  every  stage.  Some  have  been 
good  ;  some  have  been  bad  ;  some  have  borne  me  exult- 
ingly  on  to  joy,  while  others  have  dragged  me  down  to 
shame.  And  now  a  span  of  the  noblest  have  brought 
the  end.  Why  not  ?  Fortune  has  come  to  me  on 
horseback  more  than  once  ;  why  not  Fate  as  well  ? 
The  son  of  Old  Harry  will  not  forget  man's  noblest 
servitor.  He  shall  be  the  residuary  of  my  grace.  If 
man  will  not  accept  my  bounty,  the  horse  shall  be  its 
beneficiary. 

To  those  who  have  never  tasted  renown,  I  do  not 
doubt  that  oblivion  comes  at  last  as  a  sweet  solace  for 
the  woes  of  life.  But  to  me  the  fact  that  I  cannot  claim 
the  fame  that  Hubert  Goodwin  won  is  now  so  bitter  a 
thought  that  no  after-success  brings  consolation.  If  it 
were  not  that  to  do  so  would  cast  discredit  upon  her 
memory,  I  would  even  now  throw  off  the  mask  of  years 
and  proclaim  my  identity.  While  she  lived  I  did  not 
mind  it ;  she  was  all — enough  and  more  than  enough. 
But  now — the  world  is  so  empty — I  am  so  alone — that 
the  past  stirs  in  my  breast  a  vague  but  intense  yearning 


A   Retrospect.  413 

which  compels  me  to  con  over  its  joys  and  suffer  again, 
more  acutely  than  ever  before,  its  shame. 

Of  the  friends  I  have  made  here,  very  many  are  not 
exactly  old  comrades,  but  have  an  almost  equally  strong- 
bond  of  intertwined  renown,  in  that  they  were  our  ene- 
mies. The  soldier's  fame  is  dependent  almost  as  much 
upon  the  valor  of  those  he  meets  in  battle  as  upon  his 
own  prowess  ;  and  these  men  were  doughty  foemen. 
They  come  and  visit  me,  and  to  cheer  the  tedium  of 
the  lingering  hours,  tell  me  stories  of  the  war.  Some 
of  them  are  true,  some  are  fanciful.  No  matter  ;  the 
veteran  has  a  right  to  multiply  his  perils  and  magnify 
his  prowess.  As  for  myself — I  keep  silence  ;  I  dare  not 
speak. 

Perhaps  out  of  my  shame  some  good  may  come  to 
others.  Somehow,  good  is  always  strangely  linked  with 
evil.  Out  of  disease  springs  a  more  secure  health  ;  out 
of  danger  comes  safety ;  out  of  wrong  right  is  born. 
He  that  seeth  the  end  from  the  beginning  finds  His 
highest  glory  in  that  He  "  maketh  the  wrath  of  man  to 
praise  Him."  And  I,  who  have  so  long  defied  the  judg- 
ment of  mankind,  feel  at  length  a  strange  yearning  for 
approval.  It  seems  as  if  I  were  hardly  just  to  that  love 
which  pledged  itself  to  me  "  forever  and  ever,  amen," 
if  I  fail  to  do  something  to  redeem  it  from  obloquy  ; 
and,  surely,  next  to  doing  good  oneself,  is  that  spirit 
which  gives  the  means  of  compassing  the  welfare  of 
others.  The  past  cannot  be  amended  ;  perhaps  the 
future  may  be  spared  some  ill.  I  do  not  claim  to  be  a 
child  of  Theophilus,  but  I  hope  that  one  son  of  Old 
Harry  may  leave  the  world  no  worse  for  his  having 
lived  in  it. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


"an    hour   of    sun. 


A  strange  thing  has  happened.  As  I  have  said,  the 
nurse,  who  was  in  the  carriage  with  me,  has  been 
unremitting  in  her  efforts  to  relieve  the  tedium  of  my 
situation.  Between  her  and  the  young  lawyer  my  rooms 
have  been  made  quite  gay.  As  soon  as  I  was  able  to 
be  moved,  I  arranged  for  the  purchase  of  an  old  man- 
sion, standing  in  a  splendid  grove  just  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  city.  The  doctor  has  somewhat  modified  his  pre- 
dictions and  extended  a  little  my  life-limit.  I  should 
be  almost  sorry  but  for  the  life  they  have  contrived 
to  bring  into  its  wide  halls,  lofty  rooms  and  airy 
porches.  It  is  a  charming  retreat  in  which  to  await  the 
end.  Wisterias  and  honeysuckles  clamber  about  the 
porches  and  festoon  the  clustering  oaks.  Quaint  juni- 
pers spread  out  upon  the  ground  and  show  dark  and 
columnar  between  the  brown  bolls.  Evergreens  shut 
out  the  street  and  screen  the  scanty  herbage  of  the 
lawn,  in  the  red  soil  of  which  innumerable  bits  of  mica 
sparkle  when  the  hot  sun  shines  down  through  the  leaves 
of  the  great  oaks.     Roses  and  flowering  shrubs  abound. 

The  place  caught  the  young  lady's  eye  the  first  time 
she  rode  out  after  the  accident.  She  was  anxious  I 
should  go  with  her,  but  I  have  no  fancy  for  being  exhib- 
ited as  a  mark  for  pitying  glances  and  pitiful  remarks, 


"An  Hour  of  Stm.''^  415 

A  man  who  has  been  a  man  would  rather  meet  death 
than  pity.  She  gave  me  a  glowing  description  of  it  on 
her  return.  She  was  still  using  a  crutch,  and  I  remem- 
ber, as  she  stood  by  my  chair  while  speaking,  that  one 
hand  was  full  of  flowers  and  the  crutch  was  festooned 
with  honeysuckle.  The  owner  had  been  a  wealthy  man 
in  the  old  times,  she  said.  Gri'evously  wounded  in  battle 
for  the  Confederacy,  he  had  dragged  out  a  useless,  pain- 
ful life,  dying  but  a  short  time  before.  When  she  told 
me  his  name,  it  was  a  familiar  one.  He  was  a  cavalry 
officer  with  whom  Hubert  Goodwin  had  crossed  swords 
more  than  once.  The  place  was  to  be  sold,  being  more 
expensive  than  the  family  could  afford  to  maintain. 
Indeed,  they  had  kept  it  hitherto  solely  for  the  father's 
sake  that  he  might  not  feel  the  pain  of  exile  from  the 
home  he  loved.  There  were  tears  of  sympathy  in  the 
nurse's  eyes  as  she  referred  to  this,  but  she  smiled 
brightly  when  I  told  her  that  the  roses  with  which  she 
strove  to  hide  the  pitying  drops  were  not  fairer  than 
those  which  shone  upon  her  cheeks. 

They  paled  quickly,  however,  when  I  added  that  I 
would  buy  the  place  for  her  if  she  would  stay  and  be  its 
mistress  and  give  me  a  room  in  it  until  the  end.  I  had 
grown  terribly  afraid  that  she  would  leave  me.  Every 
day  after  I  recovered  consciousness  she  sent  me  a  note, 
and  as  soon  as  she  was  able  to  leave  her  room  had 
insisted  on  the  servants  bringing  her  in  her  chair  to  call 
upon  me,  and  daily  since  then  her  sunny  face  had  light- 
ened the  monotony  of  my  hopeless  seclusion.  She  had 
talked  to  me,  read  to  me,  and,  without  seeming  to  do  so, 
had  assumed  control  of  my  surroundings,  even  before 
she  was  able  to  walk  herself. 

As  I  said,  her  face  grew  pale  when  I  proposed  to  buy 
for  her  this  place  whose  charms  had  captivated  her  fancy, 
and  she  turned  away  and  sat  down  as  if  faint.     I  reached 


4t6  a  So 71  of  Old  Harry. 

toward  the  bell-cord  that  hung  beside  my  reclining- 
chair,  but  her  eyes  caught  the  motion  and  she  nodded 
disapproval.  She  did  not  look  at  me,  however,  but  sat 
with  her  face  turned  toward  the  window,  the  long  dark 
lashes  falling  regularly  upon  her  cheeks  and  the  heavy 
brows  drooping  over  them,  while  her  lips  quivered  as  if 
under  the  influence  of  some  profound  emotion.  I 
watched  her  silently.  There  was  something  very  famil- 
iar about  her  look,  yet  I  could  not  determine  what  it 
was.  "When  I  came  to  think  of  it,  I  knew  this  was  what 
had  attracted  me  toward  her  from  the  very  first. 

"  It  is  the  very  -plsice— for  you,"  she  said,  finally  ;  more 
to  herself,  it  seemed,  than  to  me. 

"And  for  you,  too,"  I  answered.  "  A  single  visit  has 
made  you  almost  well.  I  expect  to  see  you  lay  aside 
your  crutch  after  one  more  trip." 

She  smiled  at  my  banter,  but  still  looked  away  from  m^ 

"  Yes  ;  I  shall  soon  be  well." 

She  spoke  as  if  it  were  a  contingency  not  altogether 
pleasant. 

**  And  then  you  will  leave  me,  I  suppose,"  I  said,  pet- 
tishly. 

"  I  will  stay  with  you — as  long — as  long  as  you 
desire." 

"  You  accept  my  offer,  then  ?"  I  asked,  exultantly. 

"  I  cannot." 

"  It  is  not  enough  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Well,  name  your  terms.  You  have  become  indis- 
pensable ;  and,  after  all,  it  is  only  anticipating  my  pur- 
pose. I  intended  to  leave  you  a — well,  a  considerable 
legacy." 

"  I  was  so  informed." 

"  Indeed  ?" 


"An  Hour  of  Sun.  417 

"  At  least,  Mr.  Barclay  intimated  as  much  when  he 
asked  me  to  give  him  my  full  name," 

"  Ah,  yes ;  I  forgot.     Did  he  tell  you  how  much  ?" 

"  I  did  not  ask  him." 

"  You  had  no  curiosity  on  the  subject,  I  suppose  ?" 
sarcastically. 

"  Not  the  least,"  decidedly. 

"  You  gave  your  name,  all  the  same  ?"  with  a  shrug. 

"  I  did  not." 

The  deep  blue  eyes  met  mine  with  an  angry  flash. 

"  No  ?    Why  not  ?" 

"  Because  I  did  not  choose  to  do  so."  How  proudly 
the  head  was  raised  upon  the  firm  white  neck. 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  I  said,  full  of  admiration  for  her  inde- 
pendence, but  regretting  bitterly  that  she  had  not  been 
willing  to  trust  my  kind  intent.  I  had  sent  her  a  check 
for  a  considerable  amount,  a  few  days  after  the  accident, 
and  she  had  returned  it  indorsed  "  Katherine  Parks." 
My  second  attempt  to  compensate  her  for  her  kindness 
had  been  equally  unsuccessful.  "  You  said  you  would 
stay  with  me,"  I  remonstrated  ;  "  if  you  will  not  accept 
my  terms,  name  your  own.  Don't  be  afraid  of  setting 
too  high  a  price  upon  your  services." 

"  I  am  not,"  she  answered,  quietly.  "  I  will  stay  with 
you  as  long  as  you  desire — on  two  conditions." 

"  What  are  they  ?" 

"  First,  that  you  will  not  think  of  giving  me  any 
reward,  present  or  prospective  ;  and,  second,  that  you 
will  not  ask  my  real  name." 

"  But  that  would  be  unjust.  You  cannot  afford — to 
— to  serve  for  nothing." 

"  And  you  have  not  money  enough  to  hire  my 
services,"  she  said,  rising  and  tucking  her  crutch  under 
her  arm.  How  charming  she  was  as  she  turned  her 
flushed  face  upon  me,  with  a  proud  toss  of  the  shapely 


4i8  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

head  !  Yet  I  could  not  believe  that  she  meant  precisely, 
what  she  said. 

"  You  will  put  the  terms  in  writing,  I  suppose  ?"  I 
asked,  incredulously. 

She  turned  to  the  table  and  wrote  out  the  conditions 
and  handed  them  to  me  to  read. 

"  I  would  not  ask  a  daughter  to  serve  me  on  those 
conditions,"  I  said,  angrily. 

"  You  would  not  have  her  accept  any  other,  would 
you  ?" 

"  Will  you  not  be  my  daughter  ?"  I  asked,  impetuously, 
snatching  the  hand  which  held  the  paper,  and  looking 
up  at  her  with  an  earnestness  which  only  the  fear  of  a 
lonely  life  could  pardon. 

Then  the  strange  thing  happened.  She  stood  a 
moment,  her  bosom  heaving  with  suppressed  sobs,  then 
bent  and  kissed  me — not  once,  but  many  times — turned 
and  hurried  away.  I  heard  her  crutch  thumping  along 
the  uncarpeted  hall.  When  I  wiped  my  face,  I  found 
tears  where  her  kisses  had  been. 

1  do  not  know  when  I  have  been  so  badly  puzzled.  I 
could  have  forgiven  a  mercenary  motive,  and  was  pre- 
pared to  gratify  any  reasonable  or  unreasonable  wish, 
for  she  is  very  agreeable  and  seems  to  understand,  not 
my  whims — for  I  do  not  think  I  am  whimsical — but  my 
moods.  I  do  not  like  professional  attendants,  and 
would  have  been  glad  to  persuade  this  cultivated  girl, 
who  has  such  an  attractive  individuality,  to  remain  with 
me  and  be  the  chief  beneficiary  of  my  wealth.  But 
why  should  she  manifest  affection  or  agitation  ? 

The  incident  gave  me  a  bad  night,  and  when  Miss 
Parks  came  to  visit  me  the  next  morning,  I  thought 
there  were  traces  of  tears  in  her  eyes.  The  hand  she 
placed  in  the  one  I  held  out  as  a  proffer  of  reconciliation 
was  moist  and  tremulous.     I  did  not  say  anything  for 


''Alt  Hour  of  Sun.''  419 

some  little  time.  In  truth,  I  did  not  know  what  to  say. 
The  girl's  presence  embarrassed  me  greatly,  despite 
the  pleasure  it  gave.  While  she  stood  beside  me  she 
began  to  fondle  my  hair  which,  though  white  as  snow, 
is  still  abundant.  At  first  she  touched  it  very  lightly, 
as  if  putting  portions  of  it  in  place.  Her  hand  was 
unsteady,  and  it  was  evident  that  she  was  greatly 
excited.  I  could  feel  the  crutch  on  which  she  leaned 
tremble.  I  was  sitting  in  m}'-  reclining-chair,  but  she 
stood  so  close  to  me  on  the  left  side,  that  I  could  not 
look  up  at  her  without  considerable  exertion.  She  did 
not  speak.  Presently  she  stooped  and  kissed  my  fore- 
head. I  pushed  her  back  by  the  hand  I  held,  and 
gazed  up  into  her  face.  God  forgive  me,  I  had  for  an 
instant  the  most  infamous  suspicions  !  Eut  when  I 
looked  into  her  eyes  they  fled  away  like  shadows  before 
the  sunshine,  and  I  was  ashamed  that  I  had  ever  felt 
them.  There  was  indeed  a  blush  upon  her  cheeks,  but 
it  was  childlike  in  its  innocence,  and  the  smile  with 
which  she  looked  down  upon  me  was  that  of  purity 
itself. 

"  Why  did  you  do  that  ?"  I  asked. 

"Because  I  wished  to,"  she  replied.  "  Does  it  annoy 
you  ?" 

Of  course,  it  did  not  annoy  me — for  myself,  that  is, 
but  it  troubled  me  greatly  for  her  sake.  Suppose 
another  should  witness  her  caresses,  what  would  be 
said  of  her  ?  The  very  thought  sent  a  shiver  of  agony 
through  my  veins.     But  I  could  not  tell  her  that. 

"  I  wish  you  were  my  daughter." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  would  find  me  very  troublesome," 
archly. 

She  sat  down  upon  the  arm  of  my  chair,  familiarly 
holding  the  crutch  upright  with  her  left  hand,  leaving 


420  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

the  right  still  in  mine.  It  betrayed  no  agitation  now, 
and  her  look  was  one  of  calm  content. 

"  Why  not  allow  me  to  regard  you  as  such  ?"  I  asked, 
tenderly. 

"I  have  never  objected." 

"  Then  why  not  accept  my  name  and  let  me  announce 
you  as  my  daughter  ?" 

'*  Because  I  prefer  my  own  name." 

"  Yet  you  say  the  one  you  bear  is  not  yours  ?" 

**  Not  the  whole  of  it ;  when  I — came  to  live  with 
you,  I  thought  it  might  be  better  to  drop  part  of  it.  I 
did  not  like  to  seem  to  be  other  than  I  was,  however, 
and  so  told  her  the  whole  truth  a  few  days  afterwards." 

It  is  singular  that  we  always  allude  to  the  loved  dead 
as  "  her  "or  "  she,"  and  not  by  any  name.  I  do  not 
know  why  it  is — I  merely  note  the  fact.  Upon  looking 
back  I  find  that  I  have  always  done  so,  since  I  became 
aware  of  that  other  consciousness  that  once  possessed 
her.  I  seldom  called  her  Dee,  even  during  her  life. 
Somehow,  I  do  not  think  she  ever  became  quite  the  old 
Dee  to  me.  I  called  her  "  dear  ;"  never,  unless  neces- 
sary, addressing  her  as  my  wife.  There  was  no  reason 
for  this,  except  that,  having  become  accustomed  to  think 
of  another  as  bearing  that  relation  to  me,  it  seemed 
unnatural  to  apply  the  title  to  her.  I  wonder,  now,  if 
she  ever  noticed  it. 

"  What  did  she  say  ?"  I  asked,  after  a  moment. 

"  She  wished  me  to  remain  with  you." 

*'  And  she  urged  me  to  regard  you  as  a  daughter,"  I 
answered  in  surprise. 

"  She  was  very  kind,"  simply. 

"  Yet  she  did  not  tell  me  your  name." 

There  was  no  reply. 

"  Did  she  know  your — your  people  ?" 

**  My  people  ?" 


*' An  Hour  of  Sun"  421 

"  Yes — your  father  and  mother  ? — your  mother  is  dead, 
I  believe  ?" 

Somehow  I  had  gotten  the  impression  that  the  mourn- 
ing she  wore  was  for  her  mother.  She  bowed  her  head 
and  I  saw,  by  the  trembling  lips  and  the  tears  that  ran 
over  the  quivering  lids,  that  the  wound  was  still 
unhealed. 

"  There,  there  !"  I  said,  soothingly.  "  Don't  grieve. 
Why  not  let  me  arrange  everything  for  you  ?" 

"  I  thought  everything  was  arranged,"  she  answered, 
simply. 

"  How  ?" 

"  That  I  was  to  remain  as  your  daughter  as  long  as 
you  desired." 

"  Suppose  you  should  choose  to  go  away  ?" 

*'  There  is  no  danger," 

"  You  might  wish  to  marry  ?" 

'  Then  I  will  ask  your  permission." 

"  And  if  I  do  not  choose  to  grant  it  ?" 

"  Then  I  will  not  marry  !"  with  an  archness  that 
showed  she  was  at  least  sincere. 

"  You  are  very  dutiful." 

*'  I  shall  try  to  be." 

"  I  suppose  you  would  do  this  if  I  were  a  poor  man, 
instead  of  a  rich  one  ?"  I  said  after  a  moment,  lightly 
patting  the  hand  which  still  lay  in  mine. 

"  I  think  so — why  not  ?" 

"  Yet  you  are  not  sorry  that  I  am  rich  ?" 

"  I  am  very  glad  of  it — because  you  can  afford  all  the 
comforts  you  require." 

"  And  you  do  not  object  to  sharing  them  with  me  ?" 

"  I  shall  be  happy  to  do  so — if  it  will  give  you  pleas- 
ure." 

A  servant  brought  me  a  card  just  then,  and  she  went 
to  her  apartment.     It  was  young  Barclay,  the  lawyer 


42  2  A   Son  of  Old  Harry. 

who  had  been  at  work,  under  my  direction,  getting  my 
affairs  in  shape  for  final  disposition.  At  least,  that  is 
what  he  thinks  he  has  been  doing.  Really  he  has  only 
been  getting  acquainted  with  my  business, 

I  gave  him  instructions  as  to  the  purchase  of  the  house, 
directing  him  to  make  no  question  about  price,  but  to 
pay  what  the  owners  saw  fit  to  ask,  within  reason,  of 
course,  and  give  Miss  Parks  carte  blanche  in  repairing  and 
furnishing  it.  He  seemed  a  little  surprised  at  this,  biit 
when  I  told  him  that  I  designed  the  place  for  her  after 
I  should  be  through  with  it,  he  offered  no  objection. 

The  young  lady  showed  unusual  energy  in  the  work 
intrusted  to  her,  and  displayed  an  unexpected  readiness 
and  capacity  in  the  application  of  considerable  sums  of 
money,  always,  so  far  as  I  could  learn  from  Mr.  Barclay 
— for  it  was  agreed  that  I  should  not  visit  the  premises 
until  all  was  completed — with  the  very  best  results. 
After  a  few  weeks  the  work  was  so  far  advanced  that 
the  house  was  pronounced  habitable,  and  preparations 
were  made  for  my  removal.  The  nurse  had  long  since 
dispensed  with  her  crutch;  I  think  1  never  saw  a  woman 
who  made  so  light  of  such  a  serious  injury.  She  had 
been  busy  and,  I  judged,  very  happy — she  and  the 
young  lawyer.  I  had  a  couple  of  horses  brought  from 
Tete  de  Loup  for  their  use,  along  with  a  span  to  replace 
those  which  were  lost  at  the  time  of  the  mishap. 
The  mare  I  gave  to  her  has  the  white  crest  and  silken 
tail  of  Gray  Eagle,  and  the  white  spot  above  the  hoof 
which  is  the  mark  of  old  Diomed's  favorites  among  his 
progency.  A  good  many  have  spoken  of  the  resem- 
blance between  it  and  a  horse  ridden  by  a  young  "  Yan- 
kee "  cavalry  officer  during  the  war.  The  young  lady 
was  delighted  with  the  present  I  had  chosen  for  her  ; 
kissed  me,  and  called  me  "  dear  papa "  without  any 
affectation — quite  as  a  daughter  might  have  done.     It 


" A71  Hotir  of  Sun'^  423 

was  in  the  presence  of  Mr,  Barclay,  too,  who  looked 
surprised,  and  I  thought  a  little  envious  also.  Of 
course,  they  met  often  in  preparing  the  new  place. 
They  rode  together  a  good  deal,  too,  for  she  is  a  fine 
horsewoman,  as  I  have  seen  from  my  window  when  they 
ride  away  and  she  tosses  me  back  a  kiss  from  her 
gloved  fingers. 

I  suspected  a  bit  of  romance  between  them  then,  but 
had  no  wish  to  interfere.  Why  should  there  not  be  ? 
Love  is  all  there  is  of  life  worth  knowing,  and  they  are 
a  fine  couple — both  splendid  types.  I  wondered,  some- 
times, it  they  would  not  take  my  old  name  when  they 
came  to  wed  if  I  should  put  John  Howgood's  fortune 
with  it  ?  They  would  not  be  Goodwins  indeed,  but  it 
would  be  pleasant  to  re-establish  the  old  name,  if  not  the 
old  line.  The  Goodwins  were  well  enough  in  their 
queer  Yankee  way,  but  there  would  be  no  fear  of  the 
old  marked  heel  in  the  new  stock,  and  that  at  least 
would  b~  an  advantage.  I  used  to  dream  of  these 
things  before  I  had  determined  what  I  would  do  with 
m}'  fortune.  It  was  very  pleasant  to  note  the  pretty 
confidence  which  grew  up  between  the  young  people. 
They  were  often  with  me,  and  I  thought  she  petted  me 
the  more  when  he  was  present,  because  she  dared  not 
pet  him.     Perhaps  I  was  mistaken. 

The  morning  after  I  had  solved  the  problem  of  my 
life — which,  after  all,  does  not  seem  much  of  a  problem 
now — I  awoke  feeling  better  than  I  had  at  any  time 
since  the  accident.  The  terrible  burden  which  had 
rested  on  the  base  of  the  brain  so  long  seemed  rolled 
away,  and  the  prickling  thrill,  which  had  accompanied 
the  loss  of  sensation  and  of  power,  once  more  pulsed 
through  my  limbs — especially  the  left — and  I  felt 
the  steady,  continuous  glow  of  Old  Harry's  mark 
with  infinite  content.    The  doctor  came  before  Johnson 


424  A  Soil  of  Old  Harry. 

had  completed  his  morning  duties.  He  found  him  rub- 
bing the  limb,  and  incidentally  remarked  upon  the  sin- 
gular character  of  the  mark  upon  my  heel.  I  told  him 
it  was  a  family  inheritance  and  related  the  tradition 
concerning  it. 

"Yes!"  he  said,  absently.  "I  think  I  have  seen  it 
before — on  another,  I  mean." 

He  looked  at  me  keenly  as  he  spoke.  I  did  not  ask 
him  where  ;  the  old  fear  was  upon  me.  So  1  said, 
cynically  enough  : 

"  You  should  hunt  up  the  case,  and  be  ready  to 
testify.  There  are  not  a  great  many  Howgoods  in  the 
world,  and  such  a  fact  might  be  very  valuable  after  my 
death." 

'*  From  present  appearances  there  is  not  much  pros- 
pect of  a  chance  for  one  to  profit  by  my  discovery,"  he 
rejoined,  significantly. 

I  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

**  It  seems  as  if  you  were  getting  better,"  he  explained, 
with  a  smile. 

Then  he  gave  me  a  very  careful  examination. 

"  It  is  always  a  little  humiliating,"  he  said,  after  his 
scrutiny  was  completed,  "  for  a  physician  to  have  to 
revise  his  verdict.  No  man  likes  to  see  his  prophesies 
fail — especially  no  scientist.  I  am  afraid,  however,  that 
I  shall  have  to  extend  your  time-limit  a  little.  It  looks 
as  though  you  might  recover  comfort,  if  not  strength. 
Of  course,  the  odds  are  still  with  the  former  diagnosis  ; 
for  any,  even  the  slightest  thing,  may  verify  it  in  an 
hour  ;  but  it  does  look  as  if  you  might  have  some 
months  at  least  of  enjoyable  life,  if  you  are  very  careful 
and  your  mind  is  kept  quite  free  from  anxiety." 

"  Well,"  I  said,  smiling,  *'  I  have  nothing  more  to  worry 
about.  My  will  will  be  ready  to  sign  at  three  o'clock, 
and  I  am  to  be  moved  out  to  the  new  place  to-night." 


"An  Hour  of  Sicil'  425 

"  And  I  am  going  to  take  the  entire  charge  of  him," 
said  the  pretty  nurse,  catching  the  last  words  as  she 
entered. 

'*  Ah,  then  !"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  extending  his 
hand  and  shaking  his  head  in  mock  confusion.  "  Then, 
there  is  nothing  left  for  me.  I  can  only  send  in  my 
bill." 

He  went  off  amid  the  laughter  that  followed.  After 
a  while  Mr.  Barclay  came,  and  I  told  him  what  dispos- 
ition I  had  determined  to  make  of  my  estate.  The 
young  lady,  who  was  sitting  on  the  arm  of  my  chair, 
seemed  much  affected  at  this  statement,  and  went  and 
stood  by  the  window  until  it  was  completed.  I  could 
hear  her  weeping  softly.  When  I  had  concluded,  she 
came  and  kissed  me  with  tremulous  lips. 

**  It  was  a  curious  thing,"  said  the  lawyer,  meditatively, 
after  he  had  finished  his  notes  and  read  them  over  to 
me. 

"  What  ?"  I  asked,  sharply. 

'*  About  this  General  Goodwin  to  whose  heirs  you 
wish  to  leave  your  estate — " 

"  You  have  heard  of  him,  then  ?"  I  interrupted,  sneer- 
ingly. 

**  Heard  of  him  !  Everybody  has  heard  of  him  ;  but 
I  am  almost  a  relative." 

"  A  relative  ?"  exclaimed  the  young  lady,  her  cheek 
growing  pale. 

Again  I  became  suspicious  of  her.  Was  she  a  mere 
mercenary  adventuress,  after  all  ?  I  watched  her  closely 
as  the  lawyer  made  reply  : 

*'  Well,  no  ;  not  a  relative,  of  course  ;  though  I  feel 
almost  akin  to  him.  I  was  named  after  him,  you  see. 
My  father  knew  him  when  a  boy,  and  was  afterward 
under  his  command — on  his  staff,  indeed — and  never  got 
over  his  love  for  him." 


426  A  Son  of  Old  Hai'ry. 

"  And  your  father  was — " 

"  Captain  Christopher  Barclay,"  answered  the  young 
man,  proudly,  "He  always  insisted  that  the  young 
General  was  not  so  much  to  blame  for  the  act  that  cast 
discredit  upon  his  name  as  people  claimed.  He  said  he 
was  never  exactly  himself  after  a  wound  received  at 
Stone  River  ;  and  when  I  was  bom,  soon  after  the  war, 
he  gave  me  his  name — Hubert  Goodwin  Barclay.  I 
think  the  censure  he  received  for  this,  among  his  old 
neighbors,  was  the  chief  reason  why  he  removed  to  this 
part  of  the  country  ;  though,  I  suppose,  my  mother's 
death,  which  occurred  at  my  birth,  made  the  old  home 
distasteful  to  him.  He  died  a  few  years  ago  ;  but  I 
naturally  inherited  his  reverence  for  a  man  who,  it  is 
now  generally  admitted,  must  have  been  acting  under 
some  mental  distemper.  I  am  glad  you  are  going  to 
do  this  to  redeem  his  fame." 

**  Under  mental  distemper  !"  I  repeated,  looking  from 
one  to  the  other  in  amazement.  "  Can  it  be  ?  Are  we 
all  crazy  ?"  I  asked,  in  confusion. 

"  There  !  There  !"  said  the  nurse,  coming  quickly  to 
my  side,  **  This  will  not  do.  You  are  having  too  much 
excitement.  You  must  go  away  at  once,"  she  said,  turn- 
ing to  the  lawyer,  pleadingly. 

"  You  will  have  it  ready  at  three,"  I  said. 

"  Very  well,"  he  answered.     "  And  the  witnesses  ?" 

"  Bring  three  or  four  of  the  most  prominent  of  my 
friends." 

The  will  was  signed,  but  the  nurse  insisted  that  it 
would  be  too  much  for  me  to  be  taken  to  the  new  abode 
that  day  ;  so  the  flitting  was  put  oflf  until  the  morrow. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A      QUIET      GLOAMING. 

It  was  arranged  that  I  should  be  removed  from  the 
hotel  In  the  evening-,  so  as  to  avoid  the  curiosity  of  loi- 
terers, to  which  I  am,  perhaps,  unnecessarily  sensitive. 
The  house  and  grounds  were  lighted  upon  our  arrival,  ■ 
and  when  I  had  rested  for  a  moment  in  my  reclining- 
chair  upon  the  wide  porch,  and  looked  around,  I  fully 
indorsed  all  that  I  had  heard  of  the  beauty  of  the  place 
which  had  been  chosen  as  my  last  retreat,  and  was  fully 
prepared  for  what  the  daylight  might  reveal. 

There  was  a  strange  home-likeness  about  the  prem- 
ises for  which  I  could  not  account.  Much  of  the  furni- 
ture seemed  familiar,  though  I  could  not  recall  where  I 
had  seen  it.  As  I  was  wheeled  from  room  to  room,  this 
sense  of  familiarity  grew  upon  me  until  it  almost 
seemed  as  if  I  had  lived  in  the  house'  before.  Especi- 
ally was  this  true  of  the  room  set  apart  for  my  especial 
use.  I  supposed  it  to  be  the  result  of  frequent  conver- 
sations with  the  fair  purveyor  of  my  comfort,  for  whose 
thoughtfulness  my  admiration  increased  with  every 
step  in  this  tour  of  inspection. 

In  a  sense,  I  was,  however,  disappointed.  The  one 
thing  that  had  not  ceased  to  puzzle  me  about  her  was 
the  motive  inspiring  her  devotion.  I  had  long  since 
abandoned  the  idea  of  any  sinister  purpose.  In  her 
absence  it  was  impossible  to  account  for  her  conduct  on 


428  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

any  other  hypothesis  ;  but  in  her  presence  it  was  equally 
impossible  to  entertain  it  for  a  moment.  There  was 
something  in  her  manner — something  of  freedom, 
unrestraint  and  confidence — totally  unlike  anything  I 
had  ever  known,  which  was  yet  especially  soothing  and 
agreeable.  I  felt  sure  that  this  was,  in  some  way,  the 
key  to  her  motive,  or  perhaps  that  her  motive,  when 
discovered,  would  prove  a  sufficient  key  to  her  conduct. 
This  secret  I  had  expected  somehow  to  siirprise  in  my 
examination  of  the  house,  and  I  was  disappointed  that 
I  did  not.  Not  that  I  wished  to  pry  into  anything  she 
desired  to  keep  from  me,  but,  for  the  mere  pleasure  of 
discovery,  I  would  have  liked  to  surprise  this  secret. 

When  we  had  visited  all  the  other  rooms  upon  the 
ground  floor  and  I  had  scrutinized  and  commended 
everything  while  she  hovered,  flushed  and  gratified, 
about  my  chair,  calling  attention  to  this  and  that  which 
she  was  afraid  would  escape  my  notice,  we  came  finally 
to  the  two  rooms  upon  the  left  of  the  wide  hall  which 
had  been  prepared  for  our  especial  use.  I  will  not 
attempt  to  describe  them.  How  had  she  learned  my 
tastes  so  well  ?  They  were  spacious  rooms.  Mine 
opened  by  two  broad  windows  on  the  porch  ;  hers 
looked  upon  a  bower  of  roses  in  the  rear.  The  one  was 
a  man's  room — the  walls  lined  with  books  and  prints, 
strong,  manly  pictures  of  sport  and  battle  with  touching 
contrast  of  nature  and  affection — a  cavalry  charge  and 
a  wife  bidding  her  husband  adieu  before  mounting 
the  scaffold.  Over  it  all,  too,  was  something  of  that 
carelessness  and  incongruity  which  is  the  very  essence 
of  the  masculine  idea  of  comfort.  On  the  mantel  was 
a  silver-mounted  hoof  of  Abdallah  ;  on  the  desk,  already 
open  to  my  hand,  the  soiled,  grim,  writing-case  on 
which  these  pages  have  been  traced.  She  had  had  it 
brought    from    the    hotel    that    it    might  be  here  to 


A   Quiet  Gloaming.  429 

strengthen  the  sense  of  accustomedness  I  already 
felt. 

"And  this,"  she  said,  passing  through  a  curtained 
arch,  "  is  my  room.  There  is  a  door  here  that  shuts 
with  a  touch  and  almost  noiselessly,  being  hung  on 
rubber  rollers,  but  I  thought  these  double  curtains 
would  usually  be  better.  I  shall  be  always  near,  you 
see,  and  will  hear  if  you  speak  even  in  a  whisper.  I 
have  taken  you  at  your  word,  and  made  my  room  just 
as  pretty  as  I  thought  you  would  wish  a  daughter's  to  be." 

She  watched  me  narrowly  as  my  eye  went  from  one 
to  another  of  its  pretty  details.  It  was  a  girl's  room — 
light  in  shade,  pure  in  tone,  somewhat  lacking  in  adorn- 
ment— its  flushed  and  expectant  mistress  its  chief  orna- 
ment. I  did  not  think  I  could  ever  again  feel  grateful 
for  a  woman's  ministrations,  but  I  think  some  tears 
escaped  my  lids  in  spite  of  myself,  in  recognition  of  this 
fair  girl's  tenderness. 

When  we  turned  back  into  my  room,  I  asked  about 
some  pictures  which  were  so  heavily  draped,  that  it  was 
impossible  to  detect  their  character. 

"  No,"  she  said,  in  her  pretty,  imperious  way.  "  You 
are  not  to  see  anything  more  to-night.  I  am  afraid  you 
have  had  too  much  excitement  already.  Now  you  must 
go  to  bed,  and  then  I  will  play  to  you  until  you  fall 
asleep.  I  had  a  piano  put  in  my  room  on  purpose  for 
that ;  you  can  hear  it  without  being  annoyed  by  the 
performer's  presence." 

I  obeyed  without  protest.  She  kissed  me,  and  left 
me  to  the  ministrations  of  the  deft-handed  colored  man 
who  had  long  been  my  attendant.  After  he  had  with- 
drawn, low,  soft  strains  came  from  beyond  the  closed 
curtains.  They  were  very  soothing.  Though  not  a 
musician,  I  think  every  one  is,  to  a  greater  or  less  extent 
susceptible  to  the  influence  of  harmony.     My  life  had 


430  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

been  singularly  barren  of  such  experience.  She  had 
been  what  was  termed  an  accomplished  musician  in 
the  old  days.  I  do  not  think  she  had  any  great  love  for 
music,  but  her  indomitable  perseverance  had  made  her, 
as  I  judge,  a  mechanically  expert  player.  At  least,  her 
music  never  moved  me.  When  she  awoke  after  her 
long  night  she  had  not  only  forgotten  her  skill,  but  had 
an  actual  aversion  to  musical"  sounds  ;  they  seemed  to 
have  a  disturbing,  unsettling  effect  upon  her.  The 
other — Kitty — had  numbered  among  her  attractions  an 
unusual  musical  gift.  As  I  dropped  off  into  uncon- 
sciousness I  dreamed  of  her,  and  thought  I  was  listening 
to  the  airs  she  was  accustomed  to  play. 

The  change  from  the  noise  and  heat  of  the  hotel, 
which  had  constantly  increased  with  the  advancing 
season,  was  very  grateful.  I  was  dimly  conscious,  once 
or  twice,  during  the  night,  of  another's  presence  in  the 
room,  but  made  no  sign.  It  was  very  pleasant  to  listen 
to  the  cicadas  in  the  oaks  without,  catch  the  fragrance 
of  the  roses,  and  feel  that  one  so  thoughtful  and  tender 
was  watching  over  my  slumber.  After  all,  it  is  not  so 
bad  to  be  dead  in  the  midst  of  life,  if  the  life  is  only 
mindful  of  you. 

In  the  morning  I  saw  iYiQ  portiere  that  hung  across  the 
door  leading  to  her  room  move  a  little,  and  knew  that 
she  was  listening  to  learn  whether  I  were  awake.  It 
was  still  almost  dark  in  the  shaded  room,  but  I  knew 
from  the  bird-chorus  without  that  the  dawn  had  come. 
So  I  called  out  cheerily  : 

"  Come  in,  daughter." 

"  In  a  moment,  papa,"  came  the  ready  response  in  a 
voice  as  sweet  and  contented  as  the  bird-song  to  which 
I  had  been  listening. 

In  a  few  minutes  she  glided  into  the  room,  wearing  a 
morning-gown  of  some  soft  stuff  which  trailed  noise- 


\  A    Quiet   Gloaming.  431 

A 1 

lessly  behind  her.  She  buttoned  it  at  the  throat,  where 
a  bit  of  white  showed,  as  she  passed  through  the  room 
to  open  the  blinds  and  let  in  the  soft  morning  light. 
The  dew  was  yet  dripping  from  the  glistening  oak- 
leaves.  She  drew  aside  the  curtain  that  I  might  look 
out.  The  view  of  the  lawn  from  my  window  was 
enchanting.  Flowers  and  verdure,  and  over  all  the 
still  morning  light.  Even  the  bees  had  not  begun  their 
day's  labor.  I  turned  my  eyes  from  this  to  the  beam- 
ing face  which  waited  for  my  verdict.  It  was  a  morn- 
ing face,  bright  with  the  light  of  the  coming  day.  The 
abundant  brown  hair  was  looped  hastily  back,  stray 
tresses  here  and  there  telling  of  the  night's  disorder. 
The  soft,  warm-tinted  gown  fell  about  the  lithe  figure, 
revealing  its  graceful  outlines.  I  extended  my  hands. 
She  came  and  put  her  own  in  them,  her  face  beaming 
rapturously. 

"  My  daughter ! — my  more  than  daughter  !"  I 
exclaimed.     "  Why  are  you  so  kind  to  me  ?" 

"  You  will  not  be  angry  with  me  ?" 

"  How  could  I  ?" 

"  You  will  not  send  me  away  ?" 

"  I  am  only  too  fearful  you  will  go." 

"  You  will  find  it  hard  to  get  rid  of  me,"  she  rejoined, 
with  that  arch  look  which  always  enchanted  me.  What 
was  the  resemblance  that  haunted  me  ? 

**  Who  are  you  ?"  1  asked  at  length  in  puzzled  desper- 
ation. 

She  laughed  softly. 

"  Can  you  not  guess  ?" 

I  put  her  off  at  arm's  length  and  scanned  her  features 
again  in  the  cool  white  light.  She  put  back  her  hair 
above  her  ear  and  stood  immobile  as  a  statute,  only 
glancing  down  at  me  under  her  dark  brows.     Again 


432  A   Son  of  Old  Ha7'ry. 

that    puzzling    resemblance  ;    but    I   shook   my  head 
despairingly.     She  seemed  disappointed. 

Slightly  lifting  her  skirt,  she  laid  a  dainty  foot  on  a 
low  hassock  by  the  bedside  and  pointing  to  it,  exciaimed  : 

"  Do  you  know  that  ?" 

I  could  hardly  believe  my  eyes.  Clearly  traced  upon 
the  soft  white  heel  was  the  red,  fateful  mark  of  Old 
Harry's  offspring. 

"  My  God  !"  I  exclaimed.     "  It  cannot  be  i" 

"  Oh,  it  is  genuine  !"  she  answered,  with  a  glow  of 
modest  pride  upon  her  smiling  face.  '  See  for  your- 
self." 

She  placed  the  foot  upon  the  counterpane  beside  me, 
and  I  took  it  in  my  hand.  There  could  he  no  doubt 
about  it  ;  the  blood-red  spur  showed  bright  and  hot 
upon  the  heel  and  was  securely  joined  above  the  instep. 

"  But  you — no  woman  ever  had  that  mark  !"  I 
exclaimed. 

*'  I  suppose  there  were  no  more  boys  to  wear  it,"  she 
answered,  laughingly,  as  she  returned  her  foot  to  the 
slipper. 

"  But — but — who  are  you — anyhow  ?" 

She  turned  impatiently  and  pulled  a  cord  drawing 
aside  the  curtain  which  hung  before  two  pictures  at  the 
foot  of  my  bed.  They  were  portraits  of  Hubert  Good- 
win and  Kitty,  his  wife.  I  recognized  them  at  once  ; 
they  had  been  painted  by  a  distinguished  artist 
immediately  after  my  return  from  the  service. 

"  Thiey  were  my  parents,"  she  said,  quietly. 

"  But  you — you — "  I  stammered. 
"  You  did  not  know  you  had  a  daughter  T 
I  shook  my  head. 

"  Are  you  sorry  ?"  archly. 

"  I  do  not  know.     Your  name  is — ?" 

"  Katherine  Parker  Goodwin,"  proudly. 


A   Quiet  Gloaming.  433 

"  After  your  motHer,"  dreamily. 

"  Don't  you  think  I  look  like  her  ?"  glancing  at  the 
portrait. 

There  was  no  denying  the  resemblance.  Yet  she 
was  a  Goodwin,  too. 

**  And  she — is — ?"  The  words  choked  me.  I  could 
not  ask  the  question. 

Her  eyes  fell.  I  was  answered.  When  she  lifted 
them  there  were  tears  upon  the  lashes.  Yet  I  could  not 
understand  what  had  happened.  The  mind  will  be  dull 
when  the  body  is  half  dead. 

"  How  did  you  know  that — that  I  was  alive  ?" 

"  My  mother  found  you.  She  never  believed  you 
dead.     She  traced  you  by  the  horse," 

"  The  horse  ?    What— Damon  ?" 

"  Of  course." 

"  Ah  !     I  see.     She  knew  then—" 

"  She  knew — everything,"  solemnly. 

"  But  you  ? — How  did  you  come  to — to — ?" 

"  To  be  here  ?  It  was  my  mother's  wish — her  dying 
wish,  /would  never  have  come — never  have  spoken, 
but  for  that,  I  hated  you  !  I  hated  her,  too !  But  I 
promised  my  mother,  when  she  told  me  ihe  whole  story, 
just  before  she  died,  that  if  you  ever  needed  me — needed 
care,  you  know — or  if  there  ever  came  a  chance  for  me  to 
reveal  myself  without  humiliation — I  would  do  as  she 
wished.  When  I  saw  your  advertisement  for  a  companion 
for — for  her — a  few  months  afterward,  I  thought  that  was 
my  chance — and — and  you  know  the  rest." 

"  You  say  you  told  her  ?" 

"  Everything." 

"  And  she—?" 

"  She  begged  me  to  remain  with  you — unless  you 
should  send  me  away." 

"  And  you  promised  her  ?" 


434  ^  "^^^^  ^f  ^^^^  Harry. 

"  I  promised  to — to  do  what  should  seem  right." 

I  could  not  understand  it  all.  My  brain  seemed  so 
very  dull. 

"  Why  did  not  your  mother  let — let  me — let  me  know 
I  had  a  child  ?"  I  asked  at  length,  in  desperation. 

"  She  supposed  you  did  know  it,"  was  the  quiet 
answer. 

"  She  must  have  thought  me  a — a  precious  scoun- 
drel ?" 

"  She  would  never  hear  a  word  against  you — even 
from  your  mother.  She  thought  it  was  the  old  wound, 
you  know.  Besides,  she  said  there  was  no  way  for  you 
to  undo  the  wrong  after  it  was  once  committed." 

"  Was  she  very — very  unhappy  ?" 

"  She  was  not  happy — not  as  she  might  have  been, 
that  is  ;  but  I  think  she  grieved  more  than  anything 
else  for  the  odium  you  had  brought  upon  yourself." 

**  If  she  had  only  come  to  me — and — and,"  I  began, 
petulantly. 

"  Do  you  think  the  Goodwins  are  the  only  people 
who  have  any  pride  ?"  she  interrupted,  with  an  impa- 
tient frown. 

"  Pride  ?  That  is  true.  She  must  have  hated  me 
bitterly." 

"  Or  loved  you  very  foolishly  !"  was  the  tart  response. 

She  was  patting  the  floor  impatiently  with  her  foot, 
and  I  knew  the  red  mark  upon  her  heel  was  burning 
hot  with  anger.     All  at  once  she  burst  into  tears. 

"  If  you  knew,"  she  exclaimed,  "  how  my  mother 
watched  for  you  and  prayed  for  you — yes,  and  taught 
me  to  pray  for  you — how  she  forgave  you,  and  even 
forgave  the  woman  who  enjoyed  the  love  which 
belonged  to  her — you  would  not  think  so  poorly  of  her." 

What  a  perfect  Goodwin  she  was  in  her  stormy 
wrath  ! 


A   Qiuet  Gloa77iing.  435 

"  But  I — I  never  thought  poorly  of  her,"  I  said,  hold- 
ing out  my  hand — "  only  of  myself,  dear,  that  I  was  so 
weak — so  weak  and  blind  !" 

"  I  don't  think  she  blamed — at  least,  she  excused  you, 
sir,"  she  said,  coming  shyly  to  my  side,  and  putting  her 
hand  in  mine. 

What  a  strange  feeling  it  was  to  think  that  the  soft, 
warm  hand  was  that  of  my  child — no,  not  my  child — her 
mother's  child  !  I  had  never  been  a  father  to  her.  I 
had  not  watched  her  infancy — directed  her  childhood — 
known  her  life.  She  had  come  to  me  full-grown — fair, 
enchanting — but  not  my  child — only  a  daughter,  having 
her  own  life  and  stooping  to  me  in  complaisance — not 
in  duty.  We  were  strangers  except  for  a  few  months' 
acquaintance.  The  thought  made  me  very  humble — 
with  the  saddest  of  all  humility — that  which  a  parent 
feels  toward  the  offspring  he  has  wronged. 

"  I  hope  you — she,  that  is — did  not  suffer  any — were 
not  at  any  time — in  want  ?" 

The  question  broke  the  ice  of  constraint  between  us. 

"  Did  you  think  you  were  the  only  one  who  knew  how 
to  make  money  ?"  she  laughed.  "  I  think  poor  mamma 
would  have  given  almost  as  much  to  have  had  you  know 
how  well  she  succeeded  with  what  you  left  her  as  to 
have  you  acknowledge  that  you  had  done  her  wrong. 
That  was  one  reason  she  wanted  me  to  make  myself 
known  to  you.  Oh,  no  !  We  were  not  poor  !  Did  you 
think  the  Mrs.  John  Goodwin  of  whom  you  bought  your 
house  on  the  avenue  was  a  pauper  ?" 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  regal  pride  of  her 
manner  and  the  exultant  tones  of  her  voice  as  she 
uttered  these  words,  or  the  amazement  with  which  I 
heard  them.  The  wife  whom  I  had  so  thoughtlessly 
abandoned  would  not  lay  aside  my  name,  and  instead 


436  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

of  regarding  me  with  resentfulness,  had  made  excuse 
for  my  conduct  and  jealously  guarded  my  honor. 

"  Did  you  think,"  she  continued,  *'  because  you  were 
blind  that  nobody  could  see?  Or  that  old  Sir  Harry 
would  desert  one  who-  had  his  mark,  just  because  she 
was  a  girl  ?  Mamma  told  me  all  about  it,  and  I  have 
seen  her  laugh  a  hundred  times  when  she  has  met  you 
face  to  face  and  you  did  not  recognize  her.  Oh,  it  was 
too  funny  !  Because  you  had  your  head  in  a  bush,  you 
fancied  nobody  knew  you  !" 

"  Why — how  should  they  ?"  I  asked,  in  alarm. 

"  How  should  they  ?  Do  you  think  any  one  can  see 
your  signature  in  that  peculiar,  undershaded  back- 
hand, and  fail  to  note  its  resemblance  to  the  hand- 
writing of  General  Hubert  Goodwin?  I  have  heard 
more  than  one  speak  of  it  even  here." 

"  I  see — but  you  do  not  think  that — that  they  suspect 
— anything  !" 

"  I  don't  know,  I  am  sure.     What  if  they  do  ?" 

"  But  would  you — would  it  not  embarrass  you  ?" 

"  I  think  if  I  am  willing  to  overlook  the  past  no  one 
else  will  regard  it  as  inexcusable.  I  am  going  to  let  it 
be  known  that  I  am  Hubert  Goodwin's  daughter — and 
— that  you  are  my  father  !" 

I  trembled  at  what  the  revelation  might  involve  for 
me,  but  could  not  help  being  proud  of  her.  How  like 
her  mother  she  was  in  simple  directness  and  unshrink- 
ing courage  ! 

All  at  once  a  thought  struck  me. 

"  Kitty,"  I  said,  hoarsely,  giving  her  instinctively  the 
diminutive  by  which  I  had  always  designated  her 
mother,  "  did  your  mother — was  she  ever  at  Tete  de 
Loup  ?" 

*•  I  think  so  ;  at  least,  she  seemed  to  know  all  that 
happened  there." 


A   Quiet   Gloaming.  437 

Then  the  tide  of  humiliation  swept  clean  over  me.  I 
saw  it  all  then,  and  knew  how  utterly  weak  and  selfish 
I  had  been  in  comparison  with  her. 

"  Go  !  Go  !"  I  cried,  in  an  agony  of  shame.  "  Leave 
me — a  little  while — a  little  while  !" 

The  sun  had  long  since  risen  when  I  called  her  back. 
She  clasped  my  outstretched  hands  and  lavished  upon 
me  the  sweet  endearments  only  a  daughter  can  bestow. 
The  struggle  was  over,  and  I  was  content  to  submit  to 
her  direction.  Why  should  T  not  ?  What  right  had  I 
to  object  ?  If  the  world  chose  to  guess  the  truth,  let 
them  do  it,  but  we  could  oflEer  no  apology.  I  recog- 
nized the  correctness  of  her  view,  and  for  the  first  time 
in  all  those  long  years  was  quite  relieved  of  fear. 

"  And  you  are  my  daughter  ?"  I  said,  banteringly,  as  I 
stroked  the  beautiful  hand,  pushing  her  off  at  arm's 
length  and  looking  at  her  with  that  anxious  criticism 
which  only  one  in  my  position  could  ever  feel.  "  What 
shall  I  do  with  such  a  fair  responsibility  ?" 

"  I  guess  you  could — you  might  dispose  of  me — if  you 
are  anxious  to  do  so,"  she  replied,  mischievously. 

"  Dispose  of  you — how  ?" 

"  Well,  I  thought  it  just  possible,  you  know — that — 
that  Mr.  Barclay — " 

"  Barclay !  The  rascal  !  But  it  is  too  late  ;  I  see 
that !" 

A  deep  blush  had  leaped  up  into  her  face  before  she 
could  hide  it  on  my  shoulder.  It  was  too  late,  but  I  do 
not  mind.  And  if  there  is  a  boy  and  he  has  the  mark 
of  Old  Harry,  as  I  hope  he  will,  he  is  to  take  the  name 
of  Goodwin,  and  will,  no  doubt,  be  as  proud  and  head- 
strong as  his  forbears.  I  trust  he  will  be  as  honest 
and  as  tender  in  purpose,  too,  even  if  he  should  be  as 
foolish,  also. 

But  the  money  will  go  to  the  Institute,  just  the  same 


438  A  Son  of  Old  Harry. 

— the  bulk  of  it,  at  least ;  for  the  children  of  Old  Sir 
Harry  must  always  shift  for  themselves.  They  are  too 
strong  to  be  pampered  with  idleness  and  too  weak  to 
be  exposed  to  temptation.  I  will  not  curse  them  with 
my  gains  nor  unman  them  with  my  regrets. 

The  days  are  very  sweet ;  but  I  know  they  will  not 
be  many.  Joy  is  as  fell  a  consumer  of  life  as  sorrow. 
The  thrill  that  indicated  hope  of  reprieve  has  departed. 
The  limbs  are  again  leaden.  The  double-life  and  the 
half-life  are  both  drawing  to  a  close.  Neither  seems  so 
very  strange  now  that  I  see  another  life  coming  on  to 
take  its  place,  and  hide  in  the  dawn  of  hope  the  shadows 
of  retrospection.  So  the  rising  sun  screens  the  ghastly 
pallor  of  the  waning  moon.  Death  loses  its  terrors  in 
the  rosy  glow  of  coming  life. 


The  End. 


BERYL'S    HUSBAND. 

BY 

Mrs.   Harriet   Lewis. 

Author    of    **Lady    Kildare,"    "Sundered    Hearts^''     " Hef 
Double  Li/ey'*  eic. 

WITS  NUMESOUa  tUI^PAQX  ZZLVSTSATIOITB  ST  A  A.  TSAVBS. 

Paiper  Cover,  50  cents.   Bound  in  Cloth,  $1.00. 


A  very  charming  story.  It  opens  on  the  shores  of  Lake  Leman, 
in  the  romantic  city  of  Geneva,  under  the  shadow  of  Mont  Blanc. 
A  young  English  girl,  who  has  been  educated  at  a  boarding- 
school  at  Vevay,  is  suddenly  left  without  natural  guardians  and 
means  of  support.  Her  beauty  and  interesting  character  attract 
a  young  English  traveller,  who  induces  her  to  run  away  with  him 
and  marry  him.  This  is  the  beginning  of  a  romantic  novel  of 
extraordinary  vicissitudes  and  adventures.  To  give  an  analysis 
of  the  plot  and  situations  would  mar  the  interest  of  the  reader. 
It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  it  is  equal  to  the  best  of  Mrs.  Lewis's 
novels,  not  excepting  "Her  Double  Life"  and  "Lady  Kildare." 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers  and  newsdealers,  or  sent,  postpaid, 
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THE   CARLETONS. 


BY 


Robert  Grant, 

Author  of  **  Mrs.  Harold  Stagg"  "  Confessions  of  a  Frivolous 
Girl"  etc. 

ILLVBTBATED  BY  WILBOS  DE  MEZA. 


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Price,  $1.00.    Paper  Cover,  50  Cents. 


In  "  The  Carletons  "  Mr.  Grant  has  given  his  admirers  a  fresh 
and  delightful  novel.  It  is  a  New  England  story  and  the  char- 
acters are  truthfully  drawn.  Boston  is  the  scene  of  the  principal 
transactions,  although  the  story  opens  in  a  neighboring  suburban 
town.  The  charm  of  the  story  is  in  the  humorous  delineation  of 
New  England  family  life.  The  children  are  interesting,  and 
when  they  grow  up  into  men  and  women,  as  they  do  in  the 
progress  of  the  story,  they  are  more  interesting  and  charming, 
and  the  reader  takes  a  deep  and  abiding  interest  in  their  history 
to  the  close.  Mr.  Grant's  amusing  and  refreshing  humor  lights 
up  every  page  of  the  book. 

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EUGENIE  GRANDET. 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF 


HoNORE    De   Balzac 


WITM  ILLUSTBATI0X8  BT  JAMES  FAGAIT, 


ISiuo.    Bound  in  Oloth,  $1.00.    Paper  Cover,  60  Oents. 


"Eugenie  Grandet"  is  one  of  the  greatest  of  novels.  It  is  the 
history  of  a  good  woman.  Every  student  of  French  is  familiar 
with  it,  and  an  opportunity  is  now  afforded  to  read  it  in  a  good 
English  translation.  The  lesson  of  the  book  is  the  hideousness 
of  the  passion  of  the  miser.  Eugenie's  father  is  possessed  by  it 
in  a  degree  of  intensity  probably  unknown  in  America,  and  to 
our  public  it  will  come  as  a  revelation.  What  terrible  suffering 
he  inflicts  upon  his  family  by  his  ferocious  economy  and  unscru- 
pulousness  only  Balzac's  matchless  narrative  could  show.  The 
beautiful  nature  of  Eugenie  shines  like  a  meteor  against  the  black 
background,  and  her  self-sacrifice,  her  sufferings  and  her  superb 
strength  of  character  are  wrought  out,  and  the  story  brought  to  a 
climax,  with  the  finest  intellectual  and  literary  power  and  dis- 
crimination. 

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_..>^ 


An   Insignificant  Woman. 

%  j9torj)  of  :2lrti0t  l\k. 

BY 

W.   Heimburg. 

TRANSLATED   FROM   THE   GERMAN 

By     MARY     STUART     SMITH. 

WITM  ILZVBTBATION8    BY   WARBSN  B.   DAVIS. 

12mo.     Beautifally    Ulastrated.      Handsomely    Botmd    in    Cloth, 
Price,  $1.00.    Paper  Cover,  60  Cents. 


This  is  a  matchless  story.  It  is  a  vindication  of  woman.  It 
ends  finely,  so  as  to  bring  out  beautifully  the  glorious  character 
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the  artistic  and  practical  in  this  story  makes  it  peculiarly  suited 
to  the  taste  of  our  times.  It  is  impossible  to  imagine  more 
beautiful  and  effective  lessons  of  magnanimity  and  forbearance, 
strength  and  gentleness,  than  are  inculcated  in  this  novel. 
Every  woman  who  lives  for  her  children,  her  husband  and  her 
home  will  find  her  heart  mirrored  in  the  pages  of  this  fascinating 
story.  It  is  told  in  a  manner  that  must  please  all  readers,  and  is 
exquisitely  rendered  in  the  translation. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers  and  newsdealers,  or  sent,  postpaid, 
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The  Breach  of  Custom. 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  GERMAN 


BY 

Mrs.  D.  M.  Lowrey 


WITB  CBOICE ILLU8TBATIONS  ST  O.  W.  SIMONS. 


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This  is  a  translarion  of  an  interesting  and  beautiful  German 
Jiovel,  introducing  an  artist  and  his  family,  and  dealing  with  the 
most  pathetic  circumstances  and  situations.  The  heroine  is  an 
ideal  character.  Her  self-sacrifice  is  noble  and  exalted,  and  the 
influence  which  radiates  from  her  is  pure  and  ennobling.  Every 
one  who  reads  this  book  will  feel  that  it  is  one  which  will  be  a 
life  influence.  Few  German  stories  have  more  movement  or  are 
more  interesting.  There  are  great  variety  and  charm  in  the 
characters  and  situations. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of 
price  by 

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182  William  Street,  New  York. 


THE  NORTHERN  LIGHT. 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF 


E.  WERNER, 


BY 

Mrs.  D.  M.  Lowrey. 


12ino.    873  Pag«s.    Handsomely  Bound  in  Cloth,  Price,  $1.00. 
Paper  Cover,  60  Cents. 


Since  the  death  of  the  author  of  "Old  Ma'mselle's  Secret," 
Werner  is  the  most  popular  of  living  German  writers.  Her 
novels  are  written  with  great  literary  ability,  and  possess  the 
charm  of  varied  character,  incident  and  scenery.  *'  The  Northern 
Light  "  is  one  of  her  most  characteristic  stories.  The  heroine  is 
a  woman  of  great  beauty  and  strength  of  individuality.  No  less 
interesting  is  the  young  poet  who,  from  beginning  to  end,  con- 
stantly piques  the  curiosity  of  the  reader. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  postpaid,  on  receipt  of 
price,  by 

ROBERT   BONNER'S   SONS,    PubUshers,    ' 
Cor.  William  and  Sprucs  Streets,  N«w  York. 


A  New  Novel  by  the  Author  of  «« Under  Oath.'* 


JOHN  WINTHROP'S  DEFEAT. 

BY  JEAN    KATE    LUDLUM. 

ILLUSTRATED  BY  VICTOR  PERARD. 


12iuo.     Beautifully   Illustrated.     Handsomely    Bound    in   Cloth, 
Price,  $1.00.    Paper  Cover,  50  Cents. 


Miss  Ludlum's  new  novel  is  her  best.  It  is  a  delightful  story 
of  life  at  the  famous  seaside  summer  resort  on  Fire  Island,  and 
presents  a  pleasing  picture  of  the  gayety  and  frivolity  that  reign 
during  the  heated  term  in  American  watering  places.  There  is 
an  interesting  romance  growing  out  of  the  vicissitudes  of  Wall 
Street  speculation  and  the  complications  of  fashionable  society. 
The  heart  of  a  true  woman  beneath  the  silks  and  laces  proves 
stronger  than  any  change  that  outward  fortune  brings  in  the 
circumstances  of  her  life,  and  she  triumphs  over  every  depression. 
There  is  an  abundance  of  incident,  and  the  scene  of  the  story 
ranges  from  New  York  to  California,  and  from  Paris  to  Florence. 
The  illustrations  add  much  to  the  beauty  of  the  book. 

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WIFE    AND    WOMAN; 

OR, 

A  TANGLED  SKEIN. 

TRANSLATED   FROM   THE  GERMAN  OF 

L.   Haidheim. 

By     MARY     J.     SAFFORD. 

tVITJI    ILLVSTICATJONS    ST  r.    A.    CAETSR. 


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"A  thoroughly  good  society  novel."  This  is  the  verdict  of  a 
bright  woman  after  reading  this  story.  It  belongs  to  the  Marlitt 
school  of  society  novels,  and  the  author  is  a  favored  contributor 
to  the  best  periodicals  of  Germany.  It  has  a  good  plot,  an 
abundance  of  incident,  very  well  drawn  characters  and  a  good 
ending.     There  is  no  more  delightful  story  for  a  summer  holiday. 

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pm 


RARE  BOOK 
COLLECTION 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT 

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1080 


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